


run down till the rain delights you

by imminentinertia, vesperthine



Series: seadreams [1]
Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Even Bech Næsheim and Isak Valtersen Meet Differently, Cabin Fic, Isak Valtersen has a Ph.D, Journalist! Even, M/M, POV Even Bech Næsheim, Slow Burn, Tromsø
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-08 05:05:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15923459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imminentinertia/pseuds/imminentinertia, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesperthine/pseuds/vesperthine
Summary: It’s nice to get out of Oslo. He’s lived there all his life, and everything is still there. Mistakes and achievements woven into the pavestones, impossible to disentangle.Here, he has no history.





	1. city satins left at home

**Author's Note:**

> ... and finally, we’re done! here’s the first chapter of mine ([vesperthine](http://vesperthine.tumblr.com/)'s) and [immy's](http://skamskada.tumblr.com/) fisherman!isak fic. a fic that turned into marine biologist!isak and then traditional-sweaters-and-Northern Norway-appreciation!fic pretty quickly, but tomatoes tomatoes.
> 
> a big _thank you_ to [Kit](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kittpurrson/) for the thorough beta-read, and to [liljesmoothie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liljesmoothie/pseuds/liljesmoothie) for your valuable input! we’re so grateful for your help ♡
> 
> enjoy! ♡

 

 

On his way from the airport to his hotel, by bus and on foot, three complete strangers strike up conversations with him at different times. Even is starting to believe the saying that Northerners are a lot more sociable than Southerners like himself.

Granted, two of them seemed like their breakfast involved alcohol, but he feels more than welcome. Even if asking if he needs help carrying his suitcase seemed a bit excessive.

Despite the early morning, there are a lot of people moving around. The air here is softer. It’s humid and quite cold for summer, even this far north – a relief from the heat wave plaguing Oslo – yet it’s soft. The doldrums might’ve got something to do with it, but even so, he doesn’t think it’d be a painful sort of wind.

Just like the people, the weather seems kinder.

He’s glad he brought his windbreaker, though. Even if he’s only here for a couple of days, and if he’s lucky he’ll get to spend some of the time outdoors, and the forecast had predicted rain.

He was supposed to meet up with the head scientist for the project, but it changed last minute. One of the researchers is to show him around instead. He’s been told to go present himself at the project’s research vessel, so perhaps his adventure in the beautiful Northern nature is already about to begin.

It might be a short environmental documentary, so it’s at risk of being a depressive one at that, but there was no way Even would let the opportunity to include scenery slip him by. On his way to the hotel, he really only saw the mountains and the sea behind industrial and then city buildings. But he’s seen the Tromsø area on TV and in photographs more times than he can count, and he knows that just beyond the wooden houses there’s a magnificent landscape. He’ll push hard for some sightseeing.

The lobby is fashionable and Spartan, even if there are some nice-looking flowers sitting on the counter. On further inspection, they turn out to be plastic, but this early in the day, service is quick. The receptionist is polite if cold, hair tied in a painfully tight ponytail, but his compact little room is clean and neat. The bed is comfortable too, he finds, as he stretches out on it, feet hanging over the edge to keep his shoes off the duvet. He has stayed in worse and better, and as long as he can sleep, it doesn't matter if there's a small crack in the corner of the ceiling.

And in any case, it's good to be back out in the field. His position means he’s got a lot of control over the finished product but with comes an unfortunate amount of time in the office.

Here, it’s much easier to see the sky; the wide expanse of it. Too bad it won’t be dark enough to see the Northern Lights.

Stretching his arms out over his head, pushing his hands against the headboard and righting his spine after the damage done by the flight and the shuttle bus, Even closes his eyes.

It’s a bit nostalgic, doing a job usually carried out by an assistant. The travelling, scouting, interviewing, instead of planning, planning and more planning. The hours he’s now putting into the office makes this work possible, but a part of him is quite grateful that Kirsten got sick. Not that he wishes pneumonia on anyone, but it did open up an opportunity.

And if there’s anything he’s learned is that you’ve got to take each and every one of them you get.

Without opening his eyes, he reaches into his back pocket, fishing out his snus can and putting a portion under his lip.

It’s also nice to get out of Oslo. He’s lived there all his life, and everything is still there. Mistakes and achievements woven into the pavestones, impossible to disentangle.

Here, he has no history.

The bed is so comfortable he’s at the risk of falling asleep if he stays here, so he hauls himself back up. It’s even better than the one he’s got at home. Mette had wanted a firm mattress, and while it _is_ better for his back, being able to sink into the bed, like with this one is more along the lines of his preferences.

She’d insisted that he’d keep the bed, and well, he hadn’t wanted to tell her no. They might’ve only been together for a couple of years and split on amicable terms, but he knew she felt a little guilty. So, no need to pour gasoline on those flames, even though he didn’t want to keep it.

He just hasn’t had the time to sell it yet.   

After a quick shower to rinse of the morning flight grime, he proceeds to thoroughly clutter the room up with the contents of his small suitcase and his camera bag.

Then, armed with his handycam and his notebook, he puts in a fresh portion of snus and goes to find some scientists to bother.

~*~

To find the docks where the research vessel, the _Julie_ , is moored, takes no time. As he approaches, it becomes clear that they’re just finishing up something. A few people in woollen hats, waders and other waterproof gear are carrying boxes with what has to be equipment from the boat and into a small, beat-up little van with a logo on the side, before disappearing between the warehouses.

“ – but to be honest, I wouldn’t put my hopes on that.”

A woman with a bright red raincoat steps off, her hair so fair it looks almost white. The landing bridge rattles under her rubber boots as she throws a glance back over her shoulder.

Her face is open and relaxed as she laughs. Even quickens his step to approach her.

“Hi, sorry to interrupt. Even Bech Næsheim, from NRK. I’m looking for Isak Valtersen? Do you know where I might find him?”

The woman gives him a subtle once-over before she smiles. “Oh! Yes, I do,” she says, and then turns her head back towards the boat and shouts: “Hurry up, he’s here, Isak!”

“What, Noora?”

“The guy from NRK is here!”

Out pops a mess of fair curls on top of a thick patterned dark blue cardigan and tall green rubber boots. Alert eyes, broad shoulders, unshaven, about twenty years younger than Even expected, he hops off the boat like he’s never tripped over anything in his life.

“Hey, I’m Isak.”

Even takes his hand, trying not to feel so urban and out of place in his sneakers and windbreaker, faced with this embodiment of beautiful outdoor-loving Norwegian male, traditional knit cardigan and all.

It doesn’t help that the handshake is steady, firm and confirming all the rose-coloured prejudices Even’s held about fishermen’s hands.

“Even. Nice to meet you.”

Isak gestures towards the woman.

“This is Noora Sætre, another of the researchers.”

Her hand is small, smooth and cool, but her grip is strong as strong as Isak’s and her eyes ice-blue.

“Welcome to Tromsø. Have you been here before?”

“No, never been this far north. I’ve done documentaries on research projects, but usually in labs in Oslo.”

Even gives them his best ' _hello, I’m a nice filmmaker and you will love to talk to me'-_ smile, and gets somewhat friendly ones in return.

Noora Sætre raises herself up on her toes, still smiling.

“How about you get the rest of the stuff, Isak? I’ll wait in the van.”

She strides away and Isak sighs, but he does it with a half-smile. He raises an eyebrow, nodding towards the boat.

“I suppose you know the basics about the project?”

Even nods with enthusiasm, more so than the subject of cod would in any other situation, but he does think the climate change effects research they’re doing is interesting and it doesn’t hurt to make a key researcher happy.

“Of course. You’re tracking cod stocks, among other things, monitoring the effects of climate change and the collapse of apex predators on the biodiversity in the sea. I’m here to make adjustments to the script and scout out locations for shooting, that kind of thing, and I’m very grateful for your help.”

He feels he rattled that off with a little too much eagerness, a little too rehearsed. Not that he hasn’t rehearsed how to get the researchers going, he did, but it’s downright unfair to throw a perfect specimen of Northern male beauty in his path. It throws him off his usual suave filmmaker game.

Isak only nods.

The usual fare when meeting researchers are middle-aged people who can’t seem to stop talking. Isak Valtersen is too pretty and too quiet, and Even needs to find his footing here.

“Perhaps you could tell me a little about your part in the project?”

Isak draws a breath. Even pats himself on the back, it’s always an icebreaker to get the researcher to talk about himself.

“Well, I have a PhD in marine ecology. Finished that a few years ago and got the job in this project. I did my thesis on population dynamics, and they needed someone who knows about that, so here I am.”

Isak hops back onto the boat, grabbing some gear Even can’t identify. It looks heavy, but Isak picks it up with little to no effort and walks across the deck to nudge some rope back with the toe of his boot, where they’re spilling out from a compartment. 

Fuck. How to get this guy to stop being the strong and silent type and warm up to Even some. His dialect is South-Eastern like Even's own, he’d even guess Oslo if he had to, but Even could use an affable Northerner playing his part.

Isak comes back down on the pier, arms loaded, nodding towards the van. Even tags along.

“What made you go into marine ecology?”

Isak smiles. It’s a quick one, a little crooked but it shows more personality than anything else up to this point.

“Believe it or not, fishcakes.”

Even keeps his congenial filmmaker mask in place, but it’s a bit of a struggle.

Isak puts his boxes down by the van and starts loading them in, one by one, the plastic scraping against the floor of the van.

“It’s a long story, really. Anyway, I heard that cod was getting scarce due to overfishing, and we shouldn’t eat cod at all, when I was in my teens. So I gave up cod. And when I was doing my bachelor’s degree in biology I heard that the reduced cod stocks had actually led to greater diversity in the sea, which doesn’t have to be a bad thing, see. It was complex. And interesting.”

He turns towards Even, grinning now.

“So here I am, an official expert on cod and shit. Overfishing is still a pet peeve.”

Even can’t help but grin back.

Isak puts the last box of what seems to be some kind of radio equipment in the van. It thuds as he drops it, with less care than the other boxes. “So, what do you need? Apart from interviews with the important people?”

“Scenery. Since it’s about climate change in a way, it’s important to show some nature.”

“Isn’t the view of the harbour and the Arctic Cathedral good enough?” Isak says with the same teasing grin as before.

“Too little genuine ocean scenery, I should think…”

Noora sticks her head out from the driver’s window before Isak has time to reply. “What about your cabin, Isak? It’s pretty isolated, and the view’s gorgeous.”

Even knows he snaps his head towards Isak with anticipation written all over his face. But unless it’s a shack, it’s exactly what he’s been looking for.

“I don’t know,” Isak says, and he draws out the words, hesitance seeping into the pauses.

Noora nods, the wind from the sea whipping a strand of hair into her mouth. “No worries. Just a thought,” she says, before her head disappears back into the van.

Presented with such an opportunity, it’s impossible not to let the optimism get to him. Letting this go just isn’t happening.. And as he’s learned over the years, you get nothing done if you give up as soon as there’s some resistance. Isak has opened up a little, but if Even can just get something into that opening, he’s got enough tools under his belt to pry him open.

“I only need to scout the place out, so maybe we could take a day-trip out? It’s nothing definite, you know,” Even says, and puts on his friendliest smile.

Isak glances at him, not returning the smile, then he looks away again.

“I’ll see what I can do,” is all he says.

~*~

The rest of the day is a neverending stream of meeting people, talking to the head scientist when she shows up, taking notes and more notes, and then being sent off to dine on his own. Sometimes the people he works with want to show him around and have dinner with him, sometimes not. Just as long as nobody gets out the local liquor he’s fine either way. Not drinking much at all didn’t go down all that well when he was interviewing in Poland.

Isak sees him off with a few tips about restaurants, and he follows his advice. He gets to read through his notes and think about the actual filming, while eating a hamburger that exceeds his expectations and fending off a couple of friendly locals. He’s tired after rising early to catch his flight and is in bed on schedule, which isn’t always the case when working.

The next day is spent much in the same way, but he’s invited to tag along for lunch with a few of the researchers, including Isak and Noora, both dressed for office work today. It’s a relief to not be the only person around not wearing rubber boots. He arrives a few minutes late, and when he steps inside, he spots them by the bar, talking animatedly with each other. Or Noora is, at least. Isak just nods along to whatever it is she's saying.

Just like yesterday, she's the one to notice him first; smiling with bright red lips, just as open and relaxed as yesterday. Come to think of it, it’s surprising that’s she hasn’t got a Northern accent to go with it.

“There you are. Isak thought you might have gotten lost.”

“No worries,” Even says. “The town isn’t that big, it takes effort to get lost here.”

“You’ve seen a lot of big cities?” Noora asks, as the last of the group enter the restaurant and they find themselves a table.

It’s Even’s limbic system’s order, one that passes right by any rational filter, that makes him perform the small side-stepping manoeuvre ensuring that Isak takes the seat in between Even and Noora. “Yeah, it comes with the work.”

She nods, and the relaxed and open face she had on the boat comes back. “Yet you haven’t been to Tromsø before,” she says, and there’s curiosity but also a bit of judgement in her voice.

He shrugs. “Home blind, I guess.”

Isak turns his head to look at Noora. “You hadn’t been here before your doctorate either,” he says. “Don’t get haughty.”

It makes Noora open and close her mouth before she sniffs, fingers taught as she makes sure her cutlery is pristine on its napkin. “No, I’m not – that’s not the same, Isak,” she says, vowels long and a hint of laughter in her voice. “Even, I’m sure, has a lot of reasons to go abroad. More than I do.”

“Yet you went to Perth to study white sharks for your MA, Noora.”

“Shush you,” she retorts, only succeeding in making Isak laugh, giving her a light shove with his shoulder.

“Stop turning your nose up, then.”

She tilts her head up, red lips split into a smile that makes Even think that if they weren’t proper officials in white dress shirts and nice shoes, she’d be sticking her tongue out at Isak.

Makes him wonder if there’s a story there, and if the rope is taut enough under his feet to explore it. Nevermind that it’s not relevant at all.

Around the table, the conversation soon flows with ease. A few of the other researchers go into talking about some of the laws Even’s just read up upon, allowing him to contribute. When they fall into discussing the research vessel’s desperate need for a paint job, he retreats to watching; to listening and learning about them.

Everything he can use to get good interviews is great.

What he can’t use, such as how Isak has rolled the sleeves of his shirt up above his elbows, or how he handles his knife and fork with more delicacy than you’d expect from a man with such a robust grip, or how his forearms are sinewy and his fingers are long and slender – - Even absorbs those things too, storing them for later.

As they’re about to leave after lunch, Isak comes up to him.

“I’m sorry I was so reluctant to invite you to my cabin, I wasn’t really prepared when Noora suggested it.”

Even beams, trying to exude _I’m a really nice house guest I’ll be the best guest you’ve ever had_ while waiting to hear what Isak has to say.

“So, maybe you could stay over tonight? I have a guest room.”

Isak doesn’t look at Even, and he’s fidgeting a little. It’s hard to tell if Isak feels pressured into offering, if Noora has an agenda with this and has pestered him about it, but Even will make sure to be the best houseguest Isak has ever had, he can’t let the chance slip. If there’s one thing he’s learned over the years of documentary making, it’s to cling like a remora to people who have something he can use. He has a flight that evening, but tickets can be changed.

“I’d be delighted! I’ll be no trouble, I swear. Eh, as little trouble as possible, anyway. This is so nice of you, thank you!”

He turns up the beaming a notch as Isak does meet his eyes.

~*~

As it turns out, trouble is what he’ll be. Even spends an infuriating half-hour on the phone with his airline company, half an hour that would have been better spent talking to the head scientist or calling the NRK district office about the equipment they’re supposed to lend his team when they come here to do the actual filming, or pulling out the hairs on his legs one by one.

It comes down to that they’re unable to put him on a plane the next afternoon. They have no trouble at all cancelling his ticket for later that day, but booking him a new one seems impossible. Finally, the crisp customer service voice informs him that they have managed to shoehorn him onto a flight in two days.

He spends only two minutes on the phone with the ponytail receptionist, as she, still just as polite and efficient, informs him that they’re full tomorrow night, as there are a couple of big conferences in town as well as a festival for young filmmakers, and Tromsø is filling up as they speak. Another half an hour of looking through every hotel metasearch he can find seals his fate.

He feels like such a shit. He’s used to insinuating himself into wherever there’s material for the films, but Isak was reluctant to offer in the first place.

He would like to avoid annoying Isak.

With a sigh, he leaves the meeting room he’s been allotted as his headquarters for the day and walks to Canossa, also known as Isak’s un-scientist-like uncluttered office, to make his confession.

He just stands at the half-open door for a moment. Isak has his back to the door and is typing away, three giant monitors on his desk displaying complex graphs as well as the document he’s working on. Even allows himself to look, just a little, before knocking softly on the door frame.

It makes Isak all but shoot out of his chair, before swivelling around, face somehow still neutral after the start he gave at the knock, his attentive eyes trained on Even.

And Even is off, jumbling his words.

“I’m really sorry, really, really sorry, and I know how inconvenient this is for you, but they couldn’t get me anything until the day after tomorrow. The airline, I mean. I couldn’t get a flight tomorrow. After we get back from your cabin. And since there’s some sort of conference bonanza _and_ a film festival, so all the hotels are full…”

Isak sits quite still. Even trails off. Being holed up in an office has dulled that persona of his that’s on top of unexpected situations.

“So, uh, maybe you know somebody who could let me sleep on their couch tomorrow night? Or an Airbnb, or something...”

Isak shrugs.

“You spending another night in the cabin is no trouble for me.”

He doesn’t look like there’s no trouble. His face is closed off and he’s angled a little away from Even.

“I’m so incredibly sorry – ”

“No, no, don’t be. We’re very hospitable here.”

Isak laughs a little, and it sounds a bit forced, but now he swivels towards Even, his body language has opened up some.

“It’s really okay. Or you can borrow my flat in town tomorrow, if you prefer that. It’s honestly fine, promise.”

Even thanks him profusely, perhaps a bit too profusely, and takes himself off.

It’s far from an ideal situation, but at least Isak’s reluctance and distance will be a good reminder that he’s not there for fun, not there to spend quality time with a beautiful man, not there because the beautiful man longs for his company.

What Even does not do is call the NRK district office and ask if anybody there, technically his colleagues, knows somewhere he can stay the last night.

~*~

Isak picks him up outside the hotel in an old, big, trusty Toyota, a workhorse of a car. Even puts his things in the boot, and then settles in. There are some old receipts on the floor of the passenger seat, but otherwise, it’s clean. Said seat has to be pushed back as far as it can go for him to be comfortable, though, and then his knees still touch the underside of the glove compartment, so he files away a note-to-self to keep his legs as straight as possible.

As opposed to the flight, here he’s at least got that option.

Isak’s eyes stay on him until he’s gotten the seatbelt in place, and then he turns the ignition. The car starts with the rumbles of an older, but well-kept engine, and soon enough they’re out of the parking lot.

An old, quite tacky basketball charm dangling from the rearview mirror is kept in motion by all the starts and stops for pedestrians, and from the radio, there’s some old seventies rock playing. Even can’t place it – it might be T-Rex or Mott The Hoople, meaning that Isak might be twenty years older than what he looks like when it comes to taste  – but it’s hard to tell when the music is on so low. And Even isn’t one to start messing with people’s car radio settings, no matter what music is on.

Not until he knows them better, at least.

“How far is it?”

“Cabin’s just about 40 minutes outside the city centre. Manageable,” Isak says, a little short, his hands tight around the wheel as he gets them through the late afternoon traffic. It might be June, but that just means that hikers and other tourists flood the streets. Isak gets them out, and soon enough, they’re on a road with mountains on one side, the sea on the other.

The sky is overcast and the waves seem choppy. From what Even knows, it’s pretty standard here, and that it often looks much worse than it is.

In the corner of his eye, he thinks Isak might be looking at him. At least there’s a small movement now and then, and out here where the road is straight and even, it’s not the basketball charm.

So Even can’t help but pry a little.

“What made you change your mind?”

Isak taps the wheel with one finger before he overtakes a slow-moving Peugeot with mountain bikes fastened on the roof.

“We want this to be good? Right. It’s showcasing our work here, and the changes in the sea we’re facing. So we’re doing our best for the film.”

He shoots a sideways glance at Even.

“Plus, it’s nice to have company, sometimes.”

Eyes back on the road, he continues.

“I inherited a fishing boat, a _sjark_ , along with the cabin. I don’t get to take her out as often as I like, so getting to write this off as work because the documentary guy is on my boat is perfect.”

He’s grinning now, just like he did two days ago.

Even dares to test the waters, to see if they can make jokes together, if there’s a possibility Isak will enjoy having a guest he never asked for.

“You’re using me as an excuse to go have fun on your boat? I’m hurt, Isak.”

Isak glances at him again.

“Hey, you get to go have fun too. Lots of fun, if the forecast is to be trusted.”

This time his grin is different, downright wicked.

Even scrabbles for a variety of smiles and pastes on one that feels too distant, and then pays strict attention to the scenery outside the car.

He tries his damnedest not to think of how many kinds of smile Isak has in store, and if he can look like _that_ just teasing the landlubber journo, which of his smiles does he keep for his friends?

For his lovers?


	2. something truthful in the sea

 

Isak turns down a narrow road. The gravel crunches under the heavy vehicle, but once Isak has parked and exited the driver's seat to empty out the boot, everything goes quiet.

Even follows him, still not quite believing his luck.

Fresh sea air hits him in the face, riding on a gust of wind, as soon as he slams the car door shut. The slate-roofed cabin looks like it grew out of the rocks and heather, sitting above a tiny pier where a small fishing boat is moored. On closer inspection, the cabin has a fresh coat of wood stain, grey as if the planks were weathered.

Gravel crunches as Isak comes up to him, one grocery bag in each hand. “Pretty nice, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Even says, and follows Isak as he pulls out his keys and unlocks the door.

Rubber boots, fishing rods, rainwear, and a toolbox clutter up the tiny entrance, but it still looks as if everything has its designated place and is, for the most part, in that place.

Isak undoes the laces of his boots and kicks them off, before pushing them in between a pair of sneakers and a pair of Powerboots. “If you can find a place for your jacket, just put it somewhere here,” he says, picking up the grocery bags again, and disappearing through the doorway leading further inside..

Even rids himself of the windbreaker – it rustles in the quiet – and sneakers, then he goes after Isak into the main room.

Despite what Isak's said about how he comes here less often than he’d like to, it’s tidy and cosy. It even smells lived-in. Everything feels on a small scale, except for a rather impressive slate fireplace in the combined living room and kitchen. And like in all cabins in Norway, pine panelling lines the walls, but here it looks genuine and snuggly, not cloying.

A couple of old traditional woven wall hangings are the only decorations, resembling the ones Even’s own great-grandparents had on their walls. On the wall next to a narrow closet door, hangs a child’s drawing depicting one small stick figure and three big ones - one with yellow hair, one with black, one with long red hair.

“Guest room’s over there, if you want to unpack. The bed linen’s clean.”

Isak waves in the direction of one of two adjacent doors and goes to put his groceries in the small fridge.

Even follows his suggestion and opens the door. It’s small, but between the view of the mountains and the warm, yellow ochre walls it doesn’t matter. He lets his fingers stroke over the crocheted cover on the quite large bed - an impressive, intricate, decorative thing, handmade from thin white thread. Carefully, he folds the cover and puts it in a dresser drawer. Then he does his customary cluttering - clothes on the bed, cameras and toiletries on the child-sized, scuffed-up white dresser.

He returns to the main room feeling settled in, having claimed a little space for his own while it lasts. One end of the room is almost all windows, and an open glass door, all lightly spotted with saltwater dots. He slips past Isak by the kitchen counter and out that door, onto the verandah.

Noora was right, that’s for sure. It’s a gorgeous place Isak has got here.

Magnificent, snowcapped mountains in the distance, the beach just below, the hidden sun that bathes it all in a mellow eggshell light and won’t set at all tonight.

As he stands there, listening to the sea and the wind, Even feels something shift and then settle inside him. Some yearning for quiet nature he’s never examined too closely while traipsing around the world oooh-ing and aaah-ing at dramatic landscapes and epic skylines.

Not that this isn’t dramatic, with the wide rough sea, the gusts of wind and the distant mountains, but there’s a serene calm here nevertheless. It’s a restful landscape.

He has always lived in Oslo, always been delighted with what cities have to offer, but perhaps he’s not all city boy after all. The restlessness he sometimes feels when walking the streets he’s always walked seems like it’s been left behind.

South Africa felt a lot like this too, the few days he took off after filming there, renting a house by the sea and just enjoying the sun and the view. Nevermind that it had been in July, and the temperature had dropped just below zero a couple of times. It was the same sort of feeling; there seemed to be enough time breathe all the way down, like diver’s do, flat diaphragm and all.  

Maybe it’s just the change. His life is by necessity a lot of routine, and he fits his travels and his often irregular work hours into all his everyday routines, but this feels nourishing. Invigorating.

He can let his shoulders loosen up, take a deep breath, fill every cell with the fresh smell of the sea.

The door creaks just a little as Isak steps out on the verandah beside him. His footfalls are quiet and in the corner of his eye, Even sees that he’s squinting at the light.

“My grandmother grew up here. A really long way from school and everything, but it’s a great place. She fixed it up some and started using it as a holiday cabin after my great-grandparents died, and I’ve fixed it up some more. I put in the big windows here, and they’re a pain to clean, but I like the view. Still lots of things to do, but nothing pressing and I’m in no rush. You want some coffee? Food, maybe?”

Isak leans forward, both hands on the verandah railing, one thumb tapping out a rhythm on the wood.

Even resists the urge to take out his snus can, and allows himself to watch the light breeze ruffle Isak’s hair a second too long. That, and the faint freckles on the bridge of his nose.

“Food sounds good. You’ve got a beer too, maybe?”

Isak nods. “I just might.”

Rapping his knuckles against the railing, Isak then turns around, stepping back into the cabin. Even stops for a moment, watching him go, before he grounds himself in the moment. He’s been in more stressful situations over the course of his life – sometimes life-threatening or very dangerous – but sometimes, the things that throw him off balance aren’t monumental at all.

Sometimes, he just has to remind himself that this is happening now. This is where he is: about to follow Isak, no questions asked.

He makes sure to close the door behind him, the mountains and the sea still visible through the windows.

Isak leans out from the fridge, putting both some vegetables and two beers out on the counter.

“Take one.” Isak says, as he fishes his keys out of his pocket, popping both caps off with a twist of his wrist.

They’re the sort of hands you could look at for days. Capable and strong and with little cuts from ropes or tools, but Isak handles the beer bottle caps delicately, like he doesn’t want to damage even something that goes into the trash. Even grabs one of the bottles, spinning it slowly. It’s cold against his fingers, and it feels good to hold. Distracting.

Isak holds his out. “Cheers, then.”

Even knocks his bottle into Isak’s, and then watches from the corner of his eye as Isak takes a swig.

“You know it’s bad luck not to look each other in the eye when toasting, right?”

Isak lowers the bottle, raising his eyebrows. “Really. Says who?”

“The French.”

“Since when do we listen to the French.”

“Well, we based our constitution off of theirs, so sometimes they might be right about stuff.”

Even shrugs, and Isak laughs. “Now you’re just showing off.”

“Maybe, but are you willing to risk it?”

Isak rolls his eyes so hard it looks like they might get stuck, but he’s still smiling.

“So let’s do it again.”

Even holds up his beer bottle that feels like it’s filled with something else as Isak lifts his again, eyes steady. Knocking his bottle into Isak’s creates a clink, and it’s as if the little, barely audible sound reverberates.

For a short second, or not even that, Isak’s eyes seem like they’re deepening. For all he knows, it might be the light coming in through those big windows that is making the air between them shiver.

Even swallows and looks down, admits to himself that he doesn’t know what kind of tricks the light can come up with here; that he really doesn’t know anything.

Or well, the only thing he does know is that he needs a few minutes to sort his mind out. He’s here to interview Isak, so he shouldn’t be interested in anything but that. He’d like to go out on the verandah again, but it seems like a weird thing to do when he hasn’t got a good excuse.

Even catches himself fiddling with the oven cloth, his hand so desperate for something to do.He didn’t bring his cigarettes, settling for the snus can instead for practicality’s sake, and now he regrets it.

“Sorry, but where’s the bathroom?”

Isak points towards the door that Even first mistook for a closet. “There. Watch your head going in,” he says, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards before he returns to chopping the potatoes.

Even goes into the bathroom and locks the door behind him, thoughts see-sawing between a tangible and a sublimated state. It’s leaves a panicked taste in his mouth, so he grabs the snus from his back pocket, puts in a portion and leans against the sink; his reflection staring back at him.

What a _mess_ . _So_ far from ideal.

To distract himself– and catch a break from his open, so obviously attracted face – he peeks into the bathroom cabinet above the sink.

They say you can tell a lot by a person by what they keep in their bathroom cabinets. A look into his own would tell anyone that he’s a) bipolar (medications) b) long time single and not doing a lot about it (the expired pack of condoms, only two gone) c) unable to grow anything even resembling a beard (embarrassing lack of proper shaving supplies).

At first glance, Isak’s cabinet is almost empty. Spare, like his home decorations. On the middle shelf there’s one used toothbrush, one still in the plastic, a half-empty tube of toothpaste, a nondescript deodorant, floss, vitamin D supplements. But there's also a barely used blister pack of prescription sleeping tablets, on the top shelf. There are only a couple missing.

There’s another story.

Perhaps a story about someone with a degree of understanding for others needing prescription drugs.

He’s just about to close it, when he notices the anomaly. Right at the bottom, by the groove where the cabinet door fits, there’s a silvery, cylindrical object that can’t be anything but a lipstick.

Even isn’t one to assume, but Isak doesn’t seem like a guy who’d be into that sort of thing. Not even in the seclusion of his own cabin.

And that leaves one option, really. It doesn’t have to mean anything, he knows that, his own identity a prime example, and yet –

Emotional responses don’t have time to wait for the facts.

Swallowing the tobacco that’s dissolved a little before it drips down, he turns on the squeaking tap and let’s the thin spray warm up his cold hands. Once they’ve gotten a nice, flushed tone again, he returns to the kitchen.

Isak has managed to make the the little radio work with minimal amount of white noise, and the kitchen is filled with Northern radio chatter. He hasn’t changed out of the woollen sweater he’d worn during the drive, but it doesn’t hide the shape his shoulders. In a way, it rather enhances them.

Reining in his thoughts and all his damn conclusions, Even goes up to Isak again.

“Anything I can do?”

Isak’s head shoots up from where he’s been deep into the chopping of his potatoes. “Sure. There are some sausages in the fridge I was going to fry up,” he says, jerking his head in the direction of the little fridge.

“No fish?” Even asks, as he passes behind Isak, hand almost shooting out to touch one of those shoulders before he remembers that perhaps Isak wouldn’t like that. Like, at all.

Isak shakes his head, smiling a bit. “No fish.”

“But you said you go fishing while out here.”

“Yeah, but I freeze everything I don’t eat fresh and keep it back in Tromsø. We’ll see if we can catch some tomorrow.”

“Fair enough.”

Together, they make dinner ready, carefully and politely maneuvering around each other by the small counter. Isak chops the rest of the potatoes and vegetables with a speed that speaks of practice, before shoving them in the oven. In a pan that’s seen better years, but still works just fine, Even fries the sausages.

The smell of it all fills the whole cabin as they move everything over to the couch and the small coffee table.

It isn’t just the bathroom that’s miniscule. Everything in the cabin is doll-sized, it feels like. The couch is no exception. Even can imagine that Isak is quite comfortable on it when he’s alone, turned sideways with his feet up and looking out through the large windows towards the sea, but two tall men just can’t sit in it without brushing up against each other _all the time_.

There’s no more furniture to sit on, unless they drag the garden chairs lying under the verandah indoors, so elbowing each other on accident while wielding forks and knives it is.

The fire crackles in the fireplace. It gives warmth, which is needed, even this close to midsummer.

But it also helps against the silence.

In town, the people had been sociable, open. Forward. Isak isn’t. He's not cranky by any means, he talks and smiles often enough, but Even can't seem to get to him.

There's like there's a pane of frosted glass between the Isak Even gets to see, and the real one.

Isak does talk, though. Just not as much and not with the near unsettling enthusiasm as some of the locals. And when he does, it’s quiet and about the wildlife in the sea, like how the red king crab almost took over the seabed some years ago but is mostly under control now and that it’s delicious. Or about North Bird Island, some distance further north, where there are lots of huge white-tailed eagles, and about the Northern Light Even is missing out on.

Makes Even feel like, perhaps, he should make sure to come back here, sometime. Perhaps more than once.

It’s fascinating, and as he listens to Isak waxing almost lyrical about his adopted part of the country, asking the odd question – not with an eye to himself as the interviewer or Isak as the interviewee, just because he finds it interesting –  it seems as if the pane thaws. Not wholly, but enough that he can scrape off a sliver and see through. Enough for the feeling from before, out on the verandah, to return.

Something serene. And almost intimate.

They sit so close together, and occasionally Isak or Even gesture and hit each other’s shoulders, very lightly, and Isak is talking about what he’s happy to talk about and Even is happy to listen.

Resin from the firewood snaps, and Isak takes his beer. Puts his mouth against it, and Even swallows. He pulls away as much as the couch will allow, hoping it’s subtle enough.

Isak’s throat is working while he leans his head back and swallows, eyes closed. Even keeps his open. It much easier to not feel as stupid when he isn’t alone with his disappointed reflection staring back at him. There’s a high-end lipstick in Isak’s bathroom cabinet, and it really doesn’t speak in his favour, but it doesn’t tell him Isak’s leanings. Or if he’s single, or whether Isak even would be interested on the off chance that both those statements are true. But even if they are,  Even can’t let himself eye Isak’s throat from the corner of his eye.

At least not obviously.

Neither can he let himself enjoy the warmth from Isak’s thigh too much. The couch just isn’t big enough not to feel it, despite the gap between their legs. It’s not big enough not to sense that Isak puts his arm across its back when he leans back, and then pulls it back right away, as if he felt alone enough behind his glass pane to sit like he were alone until he’s reminded that there’s a stranger sharing his couch.

Even excuses himself and goes to bed early.

He lies in the comfortably long and wide bed listening to Isak going about his night time routine in the cabin, the floor groaning under Isak’s sock feet, hoping that he’ll find himself in a romance story and that Isak will enter the guest room on a flimsy pretext.

Of course, Isak doesn’t.

~*~

The light this far north doesn’t change all that much through the cycle of day and night. Midnight comes and goes, and the only thing that happens is that the light seems a little dull and rusty for a few hours before it comes back with full force.

It would make for a wonderful time lapse.

Unused to it all, Even doesn’t realise what time of day it is when he wakes up. The blinds in the guest room are high quality and keeps the worst of it out, but there is still a faint stripe of light around the edges telling him the sun’s still there.

His mouth feels dry and without even testing it, he knows his breath is horrid. Usually, he keeps a water bottle on the nightstand – it used to be a glass before the cockroach incident – but when at a new place, it’s easy to forget.

The floorboards are cool but smooth under his feet as he gets out of bed and takes a few careful steps into the kitchen, almost on tiptoe to avoid the creaking. From the windows overlooking the bay, the orange light is streaming into the room. Squinting at the light, Even takes a look at the clock ticking away on the wall. It’s only an hour or so since he went to bed.

He just about to grab himself a glass from the shelf above the sink, when he hears it.

A small, small sound. Like a steady back and forth brushing of something. Not the sea, he thinks, nor seagulls doing whatever seagulls do, it’s such a tiny sound.

He’s standing still, hand on the shelf, trying drowsily to figure out why there’s a familiarity about the faint whispery rhythm.

After a minute, he shrugs to himself. It doesn’t sound dangerous, just very well known to him in a way he can’t put his finger on. He gets a glass and with as little noise as possible, he fills it from the tap, downs it and refills it, then he brings it back with him to the guest room. The floorboards just outside his door creaks, but it’s very faint. The sounds seem to stop.

A while later, as he’s settled and ready to go back to sleep, he hears it again.

It follows him into his sleep.

~*~

The light edging the blinds is brighter the next time Even wakes up. He stretches, bumping into various surfaces around the bed, and takes stock.

He feels rested. No little aches in the joints, none of the slight fluttering in his ears that hints about a need for more rest.

His mouth is dry again, but that’s normal and is sorted out with emptying the glass of water he fetched.

All seems well, and today he’ll spend hours with Isak on Isak’s boat, doing one of the things he enjoys most; scouting out good places to shoot. He can’t hear any rain or stormy wind, indicating a nice day. A peek out confirms an overcast sky, but not at all bad weather.

His windbreaker and cotton hoodie will do nicely, thankfully. It was a bit optimistic, wardrobe-wise, to delay his flight back to go off with Isak, but he’ll manage. At least he’s brought more medicines and underwear than strictly necessary - something he started doing after being trapped in a tiny, shitty airport in Russia for two days waiting for a plane with so-called slight engine issues.

He reconsiders his assessment of the day’s niceness when he steps out of the guest room and into the kitchen nook, where Isak is wearing a whitish t-shirt that should have been binned years ago. It’s shrunken and worn, the neck wide and shapeless with use.

This might be a long day.

Isak looks up and smiles a hello, while counting scoops of coffee into his coffee maker. There’s a carton of eggs and some tomatoes on the miniscule counter, two plates, two glasses and two knives are stacked on the side of it ready to be carried over to the table. Two mismatched cups sit ready next to the coffee maker.

It’s so domestic that for a moment Even wishes it was all his.

Isak starts the coffee maker and puts the coffee tin back on the shelf, the gossamer-thin t-shirt riding up a little.

“Breakfast in a little while.”

That makes Even take notice. A chance to impress Isak just a little with his cooking skills, perhaps? Everybody likes someone who can cook.

“Eggs? I can make them, I do some mean…”

That’s as far as he gets, as Isak waves him off.

“I’m the host, I’ll do it. You just enjoy the view or brush your teeth or something, coffee’ll be ready in a minute.”

All Even can do is get out of Isak’s way with his coffee as Isak sets about boiling the eggs, slicing the tomatoes and carrying plates, butter and caviar spread over to the table.

It’s the kind of morning scene Even sometimes dreams of. Having breakfast in someone’s home feels like one of the most intimate things that can happen, and it’s been a few years since he wasn’t the one to make the breakfast or did it outside of work. The smell of coffee and the taste of eggs, their arms and knees brushing up against each other as they reach for the butter or the orange juice.

It takes some effort to remind himself that this is not outside of work. Work involves smalltalk more often than not. Isak is quiet and throughout, sipping on his coffee, unaware of Even’s strife.

“I’ll go get dressed,” Isak finally says, standing up, too close because of the accursed tiny couch, smelling all too much of of warm skin, the thin, worn pajama bottoms hugging his hips too well, right at Even’s eye level.

“Never mind the dishes, we’ll do them tonight with the dinner stuff.”

He leaves Even staring into the clouds through the windows, cradling his mug in his hands while the last of his coffee goes cold.

~*~

The sea – icy grey, with a hint of green – isn’t as choppy as it was yesterday. Or so Isak says at least. Even isn’t sure he’d know the difference.

The only thing he knows is that he’s a little nauseous, despite the antihistamine he’d taken earlier. It’s not too bad – not like that time when he was in South Africa to see the Marine Big 5 and was incapacitated for the whole ride – but he tries to stay out of the wheelhouse and other confined spaces.

There’s a gleam in Isak’s eyes, but he says nothing and he does open the window to the wheelhouse so that they can keep talking without problem.

The nausea eases up once they get further out from the shore. And it almost disappears when Isak slows _Mari_ down to pass by a small rookery of seals perched on the rocks.

“Oh!”

It might not be fish, or related to the documentary at all, but for his own sake, Even can’t help himself. He pulls out his camera and gets a few good shots of the seals. But when he turns to look at Isak, he’s just shaking his head.

“You really haven’t been out to sea much, have you?”

Even shrugs. “No, just a few times. All guided tours, or small motor boats for fun.”

The smile Isak shoots him isn’t all that big, just a twitch of his mouth, really, but he looks almost fond as he steers them a little closer to the rocks, but not close enough to disturb the animals. He lets the sjark be moved by its own momentum, and leans out the window to be able to talk to Even a little better.

“These are just common harbour seals. They’re not endangered. Not anymore, at least. But to every fisherman fishing with nets – not like I do – they’re basically seen as pest.”

“They get stuck in the nets too?”

“Yeah. But they also chew them to shreds. And for a long time, you weren’t allowed to kill them either, so there’s still some lingering resentment towards them.”

“Man and nature, right? Always at odds,” Even says, and Isak laughs.

“Exactly. And then the trifecta is completed with city folk who can’t understand why you’d want to kill such a cute animal.”

Two of the seals – one spotted, one grey – on the skerry decide they’ve dried off enough. Even gets his camera up just in time to catch as they with quite smooth movements roll over and slip back into the grey water. The rest of the seals stay on the skerry, some lifting their heads to see what the noise is, but most don’t bother.

It’s impossible not to smile. Even leans his elbows against the railing for a bit. “They are very cute though.”

“Yeah. They are.”

Further out, past the rocks and on to open water, Even also get a few good shots of a pod of porpoises. They come up close to _Mari_ , and for a moment, Even thinks Isak looks delighted as well, where he’s leaning out the window, wind ruffling his hair.

Even could definitely get used to this.

~*~

About thirty minutes from the shore, Isak stops _Mari_ , letting her move with the waves. Out at sea, the waves are still a bit high, but Even’s nausea is gone.

“This is a good spot,” Isak says, as he comes out of the wheelhouse, carrying two boxes. “Maybe we can get haddock or coalfish. Here, I’ll show you. Put on these gloves. Mind your step.”

As he’s talking, the light breeze tearing at his clothes, he goes over to the winch. Even feels a little out of his depth, but he rolls with it, almost literally as a wave hits the hull, following along and accepting the line Isak hands him.

“This line is ready, all we have to do is bait the hooks. Here’s the bait.”

Even eyes the small, neat white bags, gingerly picking one up with the clumsy grip the thick gloves give him.

“The bait’s in the bags, it’s made from mackerel. You just - like that, yeah. Get the bag on the hook.”

Even has felt out of place before. The vodka party in Poland, tea with the soft-spoken nuns in a very quiet house in Oslo, the visit in a Turkish hammam that was all fun and games until the wiry aging employee started soaping him up. But handling an evil-looking hook and hopefully not injuring himself or Isak is unsettling.

“So what is the difference between overfishing, and say something like – this?”

Even holds up one of the hooks.

“I know it’s not the same, that you operate on a rather smaller scale than a proper trawler, but maybe you could provide a good few quotes.”

Something passes over Isak’s mouth; anger that passes on to a smile and then to something like resignation.

“One’s exploitation, and the other’s not.”

He nods towards the gunwale.

“Drop it into the water, and we’ll see what we get.”

Even does as he says, watching as it sinks a bit. Well, it disappears from view fast enough in the dark, grey water, but the line tightens for a moment before it slackens again, and then Isak sticks a hand into the wheelhouse, making _Mari_ move forward, tightening it again.

Putting in the long line take about fifteen minutes, and when the last buoy is put down, Isak takes the _Mari_ a little further out to sea.

There’s a faint drizzle starting to fall once Isak slows down again, and Even decides to step into the wheelhouse. As long as he looks out the window at regular intervals, he should be fine.

Even steps into the wheelhouse, and then he sits down on the narrow bunk running along one of the short walls. The rain patters against the windows and in through the one that Isak still keeps open, letting salty but fresh air in.

“I’m going to ask you a couple of obvious questions now, but just roll with it, okay?”

Isak, deep into reading something off the instrument panel, startles. When he finds Even’s eyes, he smiles and shrugs. “Sure.”

Pulling out his handycam, Even grins and points it at Isak. The viewfinder loves him almost as much as Even’s own eyes do. Isak looks gorgeous on the tiny screen.

“So, what’s the difference between exploitation and regular fishing, like this?”

“I only put down one line, and it’s five hooks in total. So, if I’m having the luck of my life, that’s a catch of five every time. On average, I get perhaps three, if I’m out for five hours. I can eat what I catch, or give away some. And I never throw back fish that aren’t alive. Exploitation is fishing way above what you need, and in such a way that the fish stock never has any time to recover. Commercial fishing needn’t be like that, it can be done on a scale that doesn’t leave the ocean practically barren.”

He hasn’t said much, but that anger from before is back. A small smoulder that Even can’t help but to try and ignite.

“Who decides what catch is way above what’s needed though?”

In the camera, Isak’s eyes stare into his. “ _I_ do. We scientists do. Population dynamic researchers in particular.”

“So why does overfishing keep happening then? All decisions should be based on scientific evidence, shouldn’t they?”

Isak scoffs.

“Because they ignore us! Just like they ignore the climate researchers. Look at the new Norway-EU agreement; whiting catch is set to 510 per cent above what is even close to sustainable. It’s so fucking short-sighted,” he says, and it’s clear he’s fighting to keep the slight smile on his face.

It’s turning very sharp at the edges.

Even lowers the handycam, but doesn’t stop the recording. “That was great. Do you want me to keep in that ‘fuck’, or edit it out?” he says in attempt to lighten the mood.

“I don’t know. Is it supposed to be for the below fifteen crowd?” Isak asks, frowning.

“If any thirteen year olds watch Brennpunkt, I am seriously impressed and have high hopes for the coming generation.”

It seems to work, because Isak laughs. “Then keep it in. You never win anyone over by being too correct and child friendly.”

“I will, because you don’t know how right you are.” Even shuts the handycam off, noticing there’s not too much battery left due to him filming all the wildlife. “Being all proper –  it doesn’t make for an interesting interviewee either.”

“No? What makes for an interesting interviewee, then?”

For one, too long, moment, Even considers saying that which is on the tip of his tongue. Because it’s true. Everything about Isak is so damn interesting. The way he’s so quiet, and yet not. And he’s especially interesting when he’s leaning on his hands up on the dash panel, comfortable in his wool sweater, cheeks red from the wind.

“People who know their stuff.”

“Do I fit into that category?”

Isak drums his fingers against the dash panel behind him; smiling with a hint of tongue showing behind his teeth, and the helpless feeling, the one from breakfast, comes back with full force.

If there only was a simple way to just _know._

So, this time, Even doesn’t hesitate. “You do.”

Isak turns his eyes away, out through the window. The backlight makes him turn into a shadow, and Even swallows, confusion and a tiny flicker of hope marbling inside him.

Then, Isak smiles again. “Hey, great cormorants,” he says, pointing out the window. Further out, a handful of birds are wheeling, and maybe this is a sign that this, whatever it is he had in this wheelhouse with Isak, is over.

Even clears his throat. “I’ll go out and see if I can get some pictures of them.”

“Sure. Don’t attempt to fish with them, though. They do that in China.”

Isak contents himself with his instruments, and Even does indeed rise from the bunk and walks out onto deck again. The rain brought with it some harsher winds, and as soon as he steps out, he can feel his left foot slipping somewhat. It’s not enough to scare him, but he treads with careful steps across the deck to get even closer.

He’s two steps from the gunwale, when the _Mari’s_ rhythm is thrown off. The first step, Even manages to parry, putting his weight on his other leg, somehow saving himself, heart in his throat.

His next step, however, aligns with a wave hitting the hull. And with the boat tilting from the force, it’s no wonder that he, being as close to the alee as he is, simply –

Goes overboard.

Hitting the water is like running headfirst into a wall. It’s so cold. Every muscle – including his diaphragm, the smooth muscle in his arterial walls  – lock up. And for one short, but also way too long moment, the panicky, awful feeling of suffocation overwhelms him.

Familiar, yet not.

The tiny little life jacket which didn’t look up to the task of saving a grown man inflates just as it’s supposed to, which is nice, and grows to an astonishing size and provides astonishing buoyancy, which is nice too, but Even could have done without finding out that it works.

It doesn’t stop the next wave of icy water to get into both his eyes and mouth, though. But he does break the surface again; sputtering, gasping for air and through a narrow field of vision, watching how Isak comes rushing from the stern.

By the time Isak has thrown him a life ring and reeled him in, wearing an infuriating grin as he heaves Even over the railing, Even feels cold to the marrow of his bones.

“How’s the water? Refreshing?”

It's too cold for Even’s jaw to work, so he concentrates on wiping water out of his eyes.

Once back on deck, it's easier to breathe. Isak drops the anchor, and then he all but shoves Even into the wheelhouse. Pushes him onto the bunk running along the wall and tugs at his windbreaker.

“Off, off, off or you’ll get hypothermia. We’re going back to shore, but there should be a blanket here...”

He trails off and crosses the wheelhouse with two steps. Even tosses the soaked windbreaker beside him while Isak rummages around in the cabinets until he pulls out a thick woollen blanket he wraps around Even’s shoulders with quick movements.

“That's better?”

It’s not warm by any means and the inside of his nose still hurts, but Even can't say that he's actually getting any colder.

“Yeah.”

Another wave makes the boat rock, and Isak grabs onto a part of the ceiling for balance. For a second, his body blocks out the grey, neverending grey, smooth, soft, light falling in through the windows.

It's just light enough to see the glint of his smile.

“I wouldn't have taken you out to sea so unprepared if I’d known you wanted to take a swim. We’ve got sport centres for that, in this temperature. Or wetsuits, if you really want the outdoor experience.”

Even manages to smile, despite his cheeks being stiff from the cold. “Shut up.”

“Did your handycam make it?”

“Waterproof.”

It takes some effort to get just those few words out, as his teeth are chattering.

“I’ll get you to shore. You need some dry, warm clothes.”

“Didn’t bring sp-spare trousers.”

“I have clothes, don’t worry. If all else fails, you can toga it up in my grandmother’s wool throws.”

Suddenly Isak startles, eyes wide.

“Fuck, hang on. Forgot the line.”

He lets go of Even, and then he grabs the wheel, turning the _Mari_ around. The sjark moves with the waves, and if Even wasn’t so occupied with freezing to death, he would without doubt be starting to feel nauseous by the time Isak stops _Mari_ again.

“I’ll be right back…”

The last words hang in the air as he hurries out on deck. Even struggles with his shoelaces, getting rid of his sneakers, heavy with water.

Isak comes back into the wheelhouse grinning.

“Imagine that, we got a haddock. A nice one, too. Not too big but plenty for dinner.”

He gets the engine going, the boat rocking again.

Even screws his eyes shut and grinds his teeth to stop the damn chattering. He’s not looking forward to this trip. A particularly nasty shiver rattles him.

A warm hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing.

“We’ll get you nice and toasty again. Not long now.”

The boat turns, chugging in the waves. Even can feel the warmth of Isak’s hand for a long time after he has put it back on the wheel.

 


	3. stakes all his silver

 

Once back in the cabin, Isak orders Even to take a shower in the cramped bathroom, thrusting a towel at Even before he goes to light the fire. There’s not really enough room for Even to stand fully upright under the showerhead, and once the shower’s on, it’s a soft drizzle hitting him in the chest area.

At least it’s not saltwater. And it’s hot. 

For a few minutes Even just stands there, revelling in the warmth, now and then ducking to get his head under the spray. In increments, the blood flow returns to his fingers and aching toes, turning them from white to blue to reddish pink. Steam rises, fogging up the whole room; it unclogs his nose and gets rid of the scratchiness left by the saltwater. 

When he’s no longer shivering out of his skin, he can’t help but wonder why Isak hasn’t upgraded some things, like the weak shower spray or the slightly askew basin. Like the rest of the bathroom, the small shower rack isn’t impressive by any means. There’s hardly anything here: a bar of unscented soap of the kind that leaves your skin squeaking and tight, some cheap 2-in-1 shampoo and a dull-looking razor.

The soap smells a little odd, but the shampoo smells surprisingly nice and herbal – and it gets the salt out, which is the most important thing. But when he steps out, he fails to notice that the water has splashed onto the linoleum floor, and his feet slip underneath him. Thankfully, the room is small enough that he can catch himself on the basin before cracking his skull open. 

His heart is still racing from the second near-death experience of the day when, suddenly, there are three quick knocks on the bathroom door. “Come in,” he says automatically, before remembering that he’s naked. He only just manages to snag the towel and wrap it around his hips before Isak enters.

“Here. Found some of my old clothes that might fit, but since I’m not –”

Isak stops. His eyes scan over Even. It’s all too quick to be deliberate, but not quick enough to be wholly accidental, and then he seems to catch himself. He turns around to put the clothes on the hood of the toilet.

And isn’t  _ that _ interesting.

What’s visible of the back of his neck is bright red. “Sorry. So they might be a little short in the leg.” He looks at Even again, eyes on Even’s face, very quickly, and then sighs. “Well. I’m going to go check on the fire. And fix the haddock.”

“Right.” Even smiles at him, daring to tease just a little, probing just a bit, knowing that the towel is starting to slip down his hips. “Thank you very much.”

“No problem.”

As quickly as he entered, Isak exits the bathroom. Even waits a few seconds, in case Isak comes back to fetch some forgotten thing - a small daydream along the lines of Isak accidentally entering the guest room, and just as unfulfilled. He dries himself off quickly before inspecting what Isak left.

It’s typical of what you find in the back of your dresser drawers, Even supposes. Cabin clothes, nothing fancy, comfy from being worn a lot. An old pair of jeans, a red and white classic Norwegian wool sweater with stretched out sleeves from being bunched up too often, rustic-looking homemade woolen socks. And Isak was right: it all fits, nevermind that the jeans are one inch too short in the legs. He didn’t bring any underwear, and Even doesn’t want to sprint to the guest room to get some, so he just pulls the slightly skimpy jeans on.

The fabric drags along his damp skin, soaking up the last moisture and making the jeans tighter than they have to be. Can’t have everything, he figures.

When he leaves the bathroom he finds that Isak is done checking on the fire, since he’s staring into the fridge, the radio playing something sixties-sounding with an ethereal female voice.

“Is that Joni Mitchell?” 

Isak turns his head at the sound of Even’s  voice. “Yeah? That big of a surprise?” 

Even shakes his head, trying to win Isak back. “Yes, but a good one. I've been a little worried that T-Rex was the only thing you listened to.”

“I didn’t choose that on purpose. Some places the mobile coverage isn’t good enough for streaming a playlist, sometimes the radio DJs don’t do their job.”

There’s a small, mock-annoyed crease between his eyebrows. 

“I’ll make sure to tell them,” Even says, and winks at him. 

It seems to do the trick, because Isak does smile, before he reaches into the fridge to grab a bag of carrots from the bottom shelf. The blueish light brings out the almost harsh angles in his face. 

Leaning against the counter, Even pushes the worn-out sleeves up to his elbows, trying to resist the urge to flex his underarms just a little. “So. What do you think?”

For a second, it looks like Isak isn’t going to say anything. That he’s just going to stare at Even with those eyes until Even can feel that gaze underneath these borrowed clothes. He’s just thinking what a wonderful disaster that would be – 

But then Isak lowers his gaze, and looks up anew; the electric charge in his eyes dissolved and gone.

“Nice. It suits you really well,” he says, sounding genuine. “Now, you just need a little scruff and you’d be mistaken for a true Northerner.”

“Now that’s just mean.”

“Being mistaken for a Northerner? Watch your tongue, now.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Even laughs, and puts his hand on the kitchen counter next to the fridge. “Telling me that I need scruff; I can’t grow a beard to save my life.”

Isak looks like he’s moments away from  actual laughter. “Really? Not even a little peach fuzz?”

“I’m afraid not. Just a few patches that don’t really do anything to make me look manly.”

“It suits you though. The clean shaven thing.”

“I don’t mind it, but it’s kind of annoying that I just… can’t. Like, I can never achieve that look that you’ve got going on,” Even says, and sweeps his hand through the air, in a motion down Isak’s body.

Isak scoffs. “I don’t have a  _ look _ .”

“You so do.” Even swallows and tries to trust his gut, and what Isak has said. Tries his hardest to trust the invisible elastic band between them; to trust the trend and not the anomaly in the bathroom.

Here goes nothing. 

He steps closer, fingers still resting on the counter for balance. “It looks good. Really.” 

Slowly, Isak closes the fridge door. He inhales a sharp breath through his nose, and then looks up. There's something intense in his darkened eyes, something so tangible it can't be anything but what Even thinks it is. His gaydar might be all over the place, but this? This isn't something he willed into existence. 

Isak doesn't move. This is real. 

Even takes another step. “You know,” he starts, blood roaring in his ears when he comes close enough that the smell of Isak, tangled up with the scent of sea, hits him. Isak's hand is gripping the fridge door like a lifeline, but he doesn't move. Not even when Even's close enough that their toes touch. 

Isak opens his mouth, lets it fall closed. 

And then his phone on the counter lights up. It cuts through the radio chatter, screen showing a picture of Noora Sætre holding a huge fish and smiling against the sun. 

In the background are the same mountains and wheelhouse Even saw today.

Isak swallows. “I have to –” he starts, retreating, and disappears out on the verandah, phone in hand.

The door falls closed behind him. Even closes his eyes. Through the door, which isn’t that thick, Isak’s voice is audible but intelligible. It sounds like he’s chuckling.

The thing is, no matter how Even sometimes wishes it wasn’t, the importance of the scientific approach is true. No matter what anecdotal proof you’ve got, it’s not actually true until it has been backed-up and confirmed by studies and statistics. Until it has, your observation might just be the anomaly or outlier, rather than the trend. 

And the statistics regarding attraction say that the anomaly in the bathroom in most cases isn’t one. And the actual, empirical proof he’s got, is that sharp, smart and beautiful Noora who’s a marine biology researcher is calling Isak on a Friday night and that her lipstick is in this secluded cabin she’s been to at least once.

Everything else might as well just be his imagination and desperate  _ want _ for it to be true.

It wouldn’t be the first time the universe refused to let him be right.

He’s just pulling his thoughts back from a pessimistic track he’s promised himself not to indulge in too often, when the door opens again and Isak comes back.

Even musters up a smile. “Work?” he says, and it’s just as much a wish as its an honest question.

Sighing, but smiling about it, Isak nods. Spinning his phone in his hand, he looks at it one more time. “Yeah. Sort of.”

He returns to the fridge, standing just as close as before. But whatever was there, seems to have just dissolved. It might be a touch of desperation, but Even can feel that some sort of pressure is building up inside, the uncertainty the unmatched source. Gathering some more of the courage from before, Even swallows, but marches on; it will only get worse if he doesn’t even try to figure out the truth. “Are you two close?”

For a second, Isak frowns. “Noora and I? We’ve known each other since high school, so I guess. Long story,” is all he says, sounding a little cagey, and it doesn’t help anything.

“Long story how?”

That makes Isak narrow his eyes. “Look. It’s not – just long.”

“Fraternization?”

For a moment, everything goes quiet. Even can’t believe he just said that, and his mind is scrambling for a save, anything so that he won’t have to pack his bags and somehow make it back to the city now – dry at least, but in borrowed clothes. On foot.

Isak slips his phone back into his pocket. “No. No, never,” he says, eyes darting to Even, before he fixes them on his own hands. “She’s just… fishcake girl. So I owe her for all of this, really.”

Even’s stomach feels like lead. Any sparks, imagined or otherwise, have turned to ash. What a nasty, mean thing to say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean it like that. Just…”

Isak sighs. “No, nevermind. I know we can look close, and we  _ are _ close, but not… and you don’t know our history, so…”

He straightens, his jaw tighter than usual.

“I’ll fry the haddock and we’ll have that for dinner. Freshest fish you ever had, I bet.”

He smiles at Even, but it looks forced again. Not quite reaching his eyes and the warmth is not quite there.

“Go sit down. Grab a wool throw. I’ll make coffee first.” He starts to turn, but halts. “Or cocoa. Which I have because Noora drinks it by the bucket.”

This time, his smile is a proper one; it’s looser around the edges, put on by accident, rather than by force.

“We’ve known each other almost half our lives. Shared a flat for a few years, had our gay awakening together. But that’s all...”

When he lifts his eyes to Even, frozen in place, it’s almost like a challenge.

“And you... do you fraternize with anybody?”

There’s a twist to his mouth, which could be humour or annoyance.

Even swallows, his throat a little thicker than he’d like. Overflowing and dry at the same time. Disappointment in himself mingling with the still lingering ash flakes of hope he presumed dead. It’s like everything, even this confirmation, has to come at a price. 

“I try to keep things professional.”

It takes him a good three seconds to realise that here’s a chance to convey something about himself, about his personal life, about his preferences, and entirely too late he goes and pours it out. “That is, I’m single, have been for years, not involved with co-workers or anything like that, or anybody else, man or woman, or, uh.”

For fuck’s sake.

Isak’s eyes widen, and then his mouth follows, the smile genuine this time.

“Okay, that’s a lot of information. I’ll get you that cocoa.”

He points to the couch with a stern finger, and Even goes, numb and regretting every single thing he’s said the last few minutes. But at least Isak smiled.

The cocoa is of the sweetened kind with powdered milk that you just mix with boiling water, but it tastes wonderful. It warms Even through and grounds him, tucked up in Isak’s striped wool throw, so old it’s unravelling a little at the edges. He fucked up, being about as obnoxious as you can get, but perhaps not as badly as he thought.

Isak is whistling along to the radio tunes while he’s boiling potatoes and carrots and frying the haddock. He sets the table, places a plastic tub of sour cream on it, brings over the food and lets Even stay inside the blanket while they eat. The haddock tastes wonderful, fried in proper butter, and Isak is perhaps right about this being the freshest catch Even has ever eaten.

Afterwards, Isak clears the rickety table, sees to the fire, does the dishes. Even steals glances at him every so often.

He can’t take much more of this domesticity, the ease with which Isak moves around him. Can’t take much more without admitting how much he longs for it.

Every now and then, his borrowed jeans remind him of his unaccustomed nakedness under them, but he steadfastly ignores the cotton teasing his dick. He refuses to let himself be distracted, turned on by it. Just as he refuses to let himself be charmed whenever Isak looks at him, eyes dark and warm in the flickering light from the fire.

“Hey.” Isak holds up the box of instant cocoa and wiggles it a little. “Want some more? We can make it a bit more grown-up, if you want.”

He disappears almost out of sight behind the counter, only the back of his sweater sticking up. There are clicks and creaks of opening and closing a cabinet door, and he comes up again with a bottle of dark rum in the other hand. He wiggles that too, making it slosh a little.

He looks so mischievous that Even couldn’t have held back his smile if he’d tried.

“Rum in cocoa, are you serious?”

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it.”

Isak fills the kettle, setting it to boil on the stove.

“When you live up north, especially when you’re a Southerner who apparently needs to be schooled in the local customs, you learn to drink  _ karsk _ . You know that, right? You’re not all about the kind of liquor that can be bought in an actual store?”

“Yeah, yeah, we do have moonshine down south too. You must have run into it when you were younger, where’re you from, really?”

“Oslo, born and bred.” 

Even grabs hold of the common ground. “Me too, grew up on Bjølsen and now I live on Bislett. Where in Oslo are you from?”

Isak nods. “Grefsen. I lived downtown for a while, with Noora.” The side of his mouth tilts a little upwards. “And her fishcakes.”

“But very little moonshine?”

“Never had it until I moved here, actually... Thought it would taste like vodka, maybe. Vodka and strong black coffee didn’t sound bad the first time I was offered karsk _. _ It  _ is _ bad though. Very, very bad.”

Isak is grinning and Even has to laugh.

“Yeah, I’ve had it, in Trondheim. It tastes like fusel oil.”

“The good ones supposedly don’t, but don’t ask me what’s good moonshine.”

“No, I notice that you’re resorting to store-bought liquor.”

Isak takes the kettle off the heat and fills Even’s mug, and one for himself.

“You can take the boy out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the boy, or something.”

He stirs both cups, metallic spoons clinking against the ceramic, and adds what looks like generous splashes of rum. Even catches himself staring - again - as Isak carries the mugs over to the table. Isak moves in his cabin like it’s an extension of him, completely at home, completely at ease, doing a practiced little sway of his hips as he walks past the corner of the counter so he doesn’t knock into it.

This hyper-heightened awareness is new. Even can’t remember noticing so many little details about somebody before. Not about Mette, not about Amund, not about the short-term people passing through his life and his bed. Not even about Sonja.

He tears his eyes off Isak and stares into the cocoa instead. It’s warm, but also, to his surprise, thick. The kind that marbles when you stir it together, and is reminiscent of kindergarten. He sips it, a little wary of the rum, and finds the taste rich and spicy, layers of flavour added to the sweet, tame chocolate.

Beside him, Isak clears his throat.  “I don’t know how much more footage you might need, but there‘s a colony of puffins not too far from here. It takes maybe forty minutes to walk there.”

“That – that’d be great. I’d love that.” 

“Then that’s settled, for tomorrow. And you might be able to relax a little more on this trip. No nausea, or impromptu swims to look out for.”

Isak’s smile is gentle in a way that lacks all of that sharpness from before. Even laughs a little. “I’m more comfortable on land, yes.” 

He wants to go on the trip, especially since Isak is apparently still willing to take him. Actions over words, there. But a part of him can’t help but think about what else Isak might’ve suggested, hadn’t Even said what he did. A walk outside is the direct opposite of this; of warmth, proximity and potential. It’d put an actual barrier to this, whatever it is that Even’s pretty sure he’s ruined.

Isak might’ve forgiven him, but that doesn’t put them back to square one. 

It never does.

 


	4. the taste of the spray

 

Waking up the next morning is different from the day before. First of all, he never pulled the blinds down all the way, so there’s a thicker stripe of light on the floor when he opens his eyes. Second of all, it’s noisy. Like, really, really noisy. 

For a second he lies still, just listening. Trying to locate where the noise comes from. It’s very familiar somehow, but like a memory buried deep in time. Then, as his mind wakes up more and more, it becomes clear:

It’s the rain hammering against the window and the roof. That, and the howling of the winds tearing at the little cabin. It reminds him a little too much of the ringing that starts up in his ears those nights when he hasn’t slept well for a while. That tinnitus-like small sound that he by now is able to identify for what it is: a figurative alarm bell. 

This, though, is just the sea and the air violently rearranging themselves.

As he gets out of bed, the floor creaking and cold under his feet, and into the main room, he notices that there’s something off there too. It becomes clear soon enough, when he sees that the door to the other bedroom is wide open and the raincoat that was next to his still drying windbreaker is missing on the hooks in the tiny entryway.

Isak’s tall rubber boots are also nowhere to be found.

He tells himself that it’s because he’s so worried that he steps into Isak’s room. That the view of the sea is better from that window. The window right beside the one in the guest room. 

It’s the mirror image of his own, right down to the small double bed, and yet it feels much more like a home. Lived in. It might be that the duvet is thrown to the side, that the colouring is less impersonal with soft green walls and a blue and grey striped duvet cover. Or that Isak, in his haste to get away, has managed to shove his phone onto the floor; the charger ripped out from the phone. 

Even picks it up. Resists the urge to infringe even more on Isak’s privacy, and puts it back on the old wooden chair acting as a nightstand, screen facing down.

There are also the little things. The reading glasses beside the phone, the Penguin classic from before both of their times, the corner of a box of Kleenex just visible by the leg of the bed. All things that together with the homeliness of the main room make it obvious that Isak is at home here. Comfortable, as if it’s an inherent part of him. 

It’s hard not to get a little jealous, considering his own relationship with the flat in Bislett which is considered his home; how it never feels as if it’s enough if there isn’t another body in the space with him.

He’s not putting any effort into searching for anyone to fill that space anymore. It just isn’t worth it. And it leaves more time for work projects, after all.

Mette had suggested he’d get a cat. If his hours had been different, he’d probably have one by now.

From this window, Even doesn’t see anything but heather and the distant mountainside, just like in his own room. But he does see the Toyota, still parked where it was yesterday and the day before. He steps out of Isak’s space again; letting the door stay wide open as it was. 

Back in his own room, he pulls on his borrowed jeans and wool socks. In the entryway he grabs a raincoat that isn’t his own either – one with a proper hood that he tightens around his head, and has a higher chance of being made of fabric that’ll keep the rain out – and Isak’s spare, shorter, rubber boots that are just a little tight around Even’s toes, and then heads out. 

The rain is so heavy and thick it’s like a wall of water. Everything is grey, the poor heather whipped helplessly by the storm. It seems like a death sentence to step off of this verandah, out from under this roof, but – 

Thankfully, Even spots Isak almost right away. 

The yellow raincoat is flapping around Isak as he jumps and steps quickly, practised, on and off the sjark; tying some ropes and tugging at others, and checking things on the boat that Even wouldn’t know a thing about. It’s moored to the pier, which is located deep in the fjord, and yet the boat is rocking violently back and forth with the frothing waves.

What if Isak slips? Even the most experienced seaman might slip. 

Even heads into the wall of rain, the wind trying to grip him with its nimble fingers, but he pushes through until he’s almost down by the pier and close enough that Isak might hear him.

“ _ Isak! _ ”

The yellow figure peeks up from where he’s crouching by the gunwale.

“What the fuck are you doing? Get back inside!”

“I could say the same to you!” Even shouts back, resisting the urge to splay his arms out in exasperation. That would without a doubt make him take off like a very ungraceful kite.

“I know what I’m doing,” Isak shouts, but through the rain, it looks like he’s smiling as he hops down on the pier again. He doesn’t slip, and checks one last rope.  “And I’m also done.”

He comes up to Even, and grabs his arm to drag him back into the cabin. 

Once the front door has closed behind them, he sighs and shakes his head. “You’re not a journalist for nothing, are you? Adrenaline junkie.”

Even, still catching his breath, shrugs. “I just didn’t want to be accused of murder.”

“How – ?”

“If you’d slipped down there, on the docks, and I was the only other person here, wouldn’t that make me prime suspect for your murder?” he says, and as he’s saying the words, a slow smile is creeping back onto Isak’s face.

“You’re an idiot,” he says under his breath, as he starts peeling off the raincoat and rain trousers that he’s wearing over his jeans. “I know how to handle this. Besides, they’d warned about her on the radio last night. She’s just a little more violent than predicted.”

“So what were you doing?”

Isak shakes a bit of rainwater from his hair. One drop sticks to his cheek, and gets caught on his unshaven jawline for a second before slipping down his throat and into the neckline of his wool sweater.

Even gets busy pulling his borrowed raincoat over his head, and then swoops his drenched fringe out of his eyes. 

“I got a bit distracted yesterday, since you decided to take a spontaneous little swim,” Isak says, and Even gives him a  _ look _ which earns him nothing but a boyish smile, “so when the storm woke me up, I decided to go out and check the mooring. I… losing the  _ Mari _ would be a disaster.”

The humour slips out of his voice, but Isak catches it up so quickly that someone without Even’s keen eye of people would’ve missed it.

“But she’s secured now?”

Isak pulls the sweater over his head too, hanging it up on a hook by the fireplace. There’s a whiff of wet wool, where the rain must have got under the raincoat. 

“Yeah. As well as I can manage,” he says, and Even sits down on the sunken couch. Isak lifts the lid of the firewood box beside the fireplace, pulling out several thin logs of birch, putting them in a neat little tipi construction. Then he peels off some of the bark with able fingers, wrapping it in some newspaper paper, before placing it underneath the construction and lighting it with an old matchbox left on the mantle.

The little bundle of bark and newspaper quickly catches fire, burning first bright yellow before it turns into a low, smouldering green that Even knows is the hottest temperature of fire after blue. Then, with a flash, it rises high again, catching onto the thinnest piece of firewood above; it eats its way into the thin stick.

Isak blows on the budding fire, but once the flame has truly caught on to the thinnest stick, he rises from his crouch. His knees creak just enough that Even can hear it, and then he falls down on the couch next to Even. 

Or as far away from him as it allows.

The light of the fire makes it very clear how much of the daylight the storm takes away. Dark grey clouds obscuring the sun really does make a difference. In this light - the flickering, shivering light of the fire breaking up the cold, flat half-dark from outside - Isak is gorgeous.

Even lets the thought settle. From the first time he saw Isak’s head pop out through the research vessel’s door, it’s been true, but that thought had a different quality to it. Then, it was a clinical observation that made Even a little more interested in the project, but nothing more. It’s always nice working with people his own age who knows their stuff.

The thing is, as cliché as it is to say it or even think it out loud, he’s not getting any younger. And after it ended with Mette, he’s been putting off trying to meet someone new. Has focused on getting his life in order – trying and failing and trying again to find a blood concentration that fits him, coping skills for the dark days, all to be able to do the trips and the work that he does. 

The work that he loves.

After he’d been on the main crew for the first time, he’d known that this was something he couldn’t let go off. That the stories that people didn’t want to see, or tried to hide no matter how ugly they were, had to come into the light. It was only then that progress could be made.

He’d learnt that the hard way himself – and lost Sonja in the process. 

But now, that he’s managing well – has made a life for himself, hasn’t ruined anything important in a very long time, feels good and content – he’d like there to be someone. He tries to tell himself that he’s not lonely, but that it’d just be nice to have something other than his next project to look forward to. 

Something that won’t just end, one day. Something more sustainable than two years.

And he hasn’t been looking, really. Has always believed, ever since he slipped on that ice patch at fifteen and fell into Sonja’s arms on the pavement, that fate would put the person in his way. That like, with everything apart from the truth in his work, he’d find it as soon as he stopped trying to find it. 

It worked with Amund, and it worked with Mette. They just slipped into his life, just as Sonja had. They also slipped out just as easily; no lingering conflicts or disputes. Just mutual agreements that this wasn’t working anymore.

Isak is neither of those things now. They’ve hit a snag right away. So it’s more like the universe is willing to give him a hint, a lead, but refuses, as always, to make it easy. 

Isak’s voice cuts through his thoughts. 

“There won’t be that much to do today,” he says, staring into the fire before he turns to Even again. “Because I don’t think you’re that keen on hiking out to where the puffins are in this weather, right?”

Right then, a swift gust of wind makes the rain hammer like covering fire against the glass. 

Even swallows. “Nope. That... that can wait.”

“Agreed.”

The fire has roared to life now. High and wide, it casts its shivering light on Isak as he gets up from the couch – which sighs with relief – and goes over to the door again. He flicks the switch, and the lamp hanging from the ceiling clicks on, spreading a mellower light over the whole cabin. 

“I’m starving,” Isak says, “And I need coffee. I suppose you do, too.”

Breakfast, once they get to it, is much the same as the day before. There are only two eggs left, so Isak turns them and some leek into a small omelette to share, giving Even the opportunity to point out that caviar spread on omelettes is an abomination. Isak returns fire by telling Even that eggs are eggs and Even himself put caviar on the boiled eggs yesterday. Even’s failing argument about the clash of the tastes of leek and caviar is met with a scoff. There’s cheese too, and without saying anything Even refrains from putting caviar spread on that, although he’d like to. He can imagine the discussion that would ensue, as he watches Isak put neat slices of tomato on his own cheese sandwich.

They eat in silence, just the rain hammering against the big windows as a pleasant background noise. 

“If puffin watching is off the table, what else do you do out here when it’s storming?” Even can’t help but ask, putting down his empty mug on the little coffee table.

Putting his arm over the back of the couch again, this time letting it rest there, Isak tilts his head back, looking into the ceiling. “I don’t usually come here then. But if I get caught in one, I just read some articles, get some writing done, or listen to that.”

He motions towards the radio that’s all quiet now. Not even emitting any white noise.

“So, you work? And listen to ancient pop?”

Isak rolls his eyes. “Only when the conditions don’t allow me to take  _ Mari _ out. And I have no wifi here, and even the mobile coverage isn’t all that great. I’m supporting your broadcasting company and your questionable DJs, you should be happy.”

“Right,” Even says under his breath, and then he takes out an imaginary notepad and mumbles, “Note: Isak Valtersen is also a workaholic.”

Isak snorts, mock-offended, but he does look amused. It’s the relaxed, open expression from yesterday – after Even’s colossal fuck-up – and it feels good to see it back. Safer.

“Is that the kind of thing you write in your actual notes?” 

“No,” Even lets the imaginary notepad dissolve. 

“Unless I was doing, let’s say, a portrait of you. Then I might. But that would be obvious from filming your day-to-day. You don’t want to be too obvious, not if you want it to be any good. You need to trust your audience to pick up on something without being spoon-fed every detail. So, I’d film Valtersen at his office desk, bathed in the light of his vast collection of monitors. Valtersen at his cabin table, laptop and scientific journals covering the surfaces. Valtersen in the shower, making notes on his bathroom panelling with a waterproof marker because he just had a groundbreaking idea.”

Isak snickers a little.

“Have you ever done that? A portrait, I mean. Not permanent marker on tiles.”

Even shakes his head. “No. I’ve worked as an assistant on a crew that did, but that doesn’t really count. I wasn’t involved in the actual interviews. And I don’t think I’d be too interested in that, anyway. I like what I do.”

In the corner of his eye, Isak withdraws his hand to lean his head in it, elbow resting on the back of the couch still. Even already misses the closeness. 

“Serious stuff,” Isak says, smile ticking in the corner of his mouth. 

“Portraits can be serious too, if you get close enough. But I guess you’re right. I like the digging aspect of things.”

“What have you done before? Like, something I know of?”

Even shrugs. “I’ve been at Brennpunkt on and off for about five years? Don’t know how much you watch that sort of stuff, but I was on the main team for the story about unsentenced self-harming youth being put under forensic psychiatric care.”

“And this time it’s about biodiversity and overfishing.”

“Well, it’s about that Norway-EU agreement on fishing limits, the one you obviously know about. And there’s evidence to suggest that it’s just a thin veil to allow overfishing of whiting and cod down south, in Kattegat and Skagerrak because the EU knows they won’t be able to monitor it properly. Or that's the gist of it. I’m not too involved this time though. It was really just supposed to be two days to scout for what we’ll film at FISHDIV,  you’re in it to get some nuance in, you know, because how the cod is flourishing, and I wanted to check out some nice locations too.”

Isak nods slowly. “And then you got stuck here.”

“And then I got stuck here.”

 


	5. some dreams to share

Over the course of the day, the storm fluctuates between relative calm and producing winds strong enough they threaten to tear off the roof. Isak suggests that they might as well wash Even’s clothes from yesterday, to get the stench of saltwater and seaweed out. It’s a good way to makes the hours in the cabin pass: first washing everything with only two buckets of water and some detergent, then lugging Isak’s garden chairs indoors and wiping them down, draping the clothes over them as close to the fireplace as possible.

By the time they’re done, both of them are starving. They scrape together the leftovers from yesterday’s dinner and heat it in the oven, before settling down on the couch again.

It’s fascinating how tired you get by doing close to nothing.

Having finished the last of the food, Even sinks a little further into the couch, and stretches his legs out until he can put his heels on the coffee table. In the kitchen area next to the couch, Isak bustles around, searching for a supposed game of Yahtzee; muttering under his breath, he opens a few drawers before he slams a cabinet shut.

The radio is on, the fire crackling, and for a second, it is as if he’s always been here. That this, all of it, is a part of his life. Midnight sun, sunken couch, Northern radio chatter, Isak – all of it is his to have.

The feeling dissolves the moment Isak comes back to the couch, falling back into the seat he’d just left.

“It’s gone. Found this though, so I can spare you the stories of my fieldwork in Alaska,” he says, grinning, as he tosses something into Even’s lap, as well as putting down two beers in front of them.

He uses his keys again; bone and muscle moving in sync to remove the caps, letting them then clatter to the table top.

Even’s curiosity is piqued by the casual mention of Alaska, but he picks the object up. It’s a deck of cards, old and splitting in the corners. Instead of the normal suites on the cards, there are  different sea birds. “Cards?”

Isak looks at him with an uninterpretable look. “Yeah.”

“Strip poker?”

Sometimes Even’s mouth does things before his brain catches up, and he rather wishes it wouldn’t. Certainly after yesterday. He suppresses a wince and attempts to look normal, smiling and collected.

For a second, it looks like Isak is considering it. As ridiculous as the idea is, somewhere deep inside Even wants him to take him up on the offer. At the same time, he really should stop pushing Isak; it’s not like he means to, but Isak draws him like the proverbial flame.

“You know Casino?” Isak says instead, and Even is both relieved and disappointed in the same breath. “It’s a perfect game for two. Grandma taught me.”

They both perch on the edge of the couch, angled towards each other so as not to see each other’s hand. Even tries to tuck his legs away under it, fails and tries to put them off to the left under the table, then resigns himself to his knees knocking against Isak’s. Isak doesn’t seem to notice, he folds one leg up under him while shuffling the cards, his other knee still against Even’s.

Even gets the urge to jiggle his legs, to drum on the table with his fingers, anything to find some release for the nervous energy that comes from Isak’s bony knee resting against his own.

He gets distracted as Isak takes him through the complicated motions of Casino. Even is quite quick to catch on, as he usually does with games. He wins four times, and is almost starting to believe that Isak is, for some reason, letting him win, when Isak then wins the fifth round.

And the happiness he displays as he wins, shooting up from the couch and whooping, is no act, so Even guesses he’d just been blessed by a mad case of beginner’s luck.

When he moves to sit back down, Isak throws a quick look at the coffee table and stops. “You want a new one?” he says, pointing at the beer that Even still hasn’t touched. “It must’ve gone warm by now.”

Even takes the cards back towards his side of the couch, and looks from the bottle to Isak and back to the bottle again. Isak has gone through five in barely an hour, and it’s starting to show. His face is a bit flushed - not enough to cloud his judgement, but perhaps enough to get something more out of him.

Something from behind those panes of frosted glass; something honest and real.

As long as Even reveals something about himself too. Something of the same caliber, and weight.

“I shouldn’t drink too many days in a row,” he says, shuffling the card deck without looking at his hands. The fire crackles in the background. “It’s… I can drink if I want to, but I think this one is enough today.”

“Oh.” Isak sits down, pulls a leg onto the couch, angling his body towards Even better; body language open and interested. “Okay,” he say, quiet. “An illness?”

“Kind of.”

“What kind? If you wanna tell me, that is.”

“Mental. ”

“Oh.”

Isak picks his own beer up and drinks it. Like, really downs half the bottle in one go; throat working and Even can’t look away.

It takes too long. He just dropped the _thing_ in Isak’s lap, something is teetering on a brink here while Isak is drinking his beer. Black edges creep in, narrowing down his vision. He has to breathe, despite the fact that his skin feels too thin to hold anything more, organs and emotions alike. More air would be too much, would flay him open.

This is always the worst part. The wait; Schrödinger’s silence.

Isak pops his lips off the rim of the bottle, not looking at him. Even swallows, tries to not feel as if his skin is dissolving, leaving him a bleeding mess. He’s been vulnerable before. It doesn’t always have to hurt.

Amund had showed him that, up to the point where it became clear that he wanted kids and Even didn’t. Mette had showed him as well, before she couldn’t balance her life with him; her need for control and safety outweighing her love for him.

“But no alcohol problems?”

Isak’s voice cracks through his thoughts. Even shakes his head. “No. No, nothing like that. Just – it’s not good for me. Too much of it.”

“Right. Well, I’m just going to get rid of that –”

Taking  the bottle, Isak walks over to the kitchen, only three steps required to reach the counter. There’s a faint clink as the glass bottle knocks into the stainless steel of the sink. Even is glad for the card deck in his hands as he continues to shuffle it, even though he’s not increasing the entropy of it now, but rather putting it more and more back into order.

He listens as Isak’s footfalls come back over the creaking wooden floor. But he doesn’t look as Isak sits down on the couch again; he sees it in his periphery and it’s enough.

“I’m a little tipsy right now,” Isak then says, after a moment of silence. “Still here, though. But, I’m sorry if I say anything stupid. We have mental illness running in the family, schizophrenia, and it has affected, well – it’s the reason I’m the one to inherit this place, and not my mum. It’s bad. So, I’m… _fuck_ , I’m all over the place.”

He drags his hands across his face, breathing loudly into his hands.

Even puts down the deck of cards, his hands shaking too much to keep them safe. “I’m sorry.”

Isak utters a mirthless laugh. “Don’t be. It has nothing to do with you. Well, it shouldn’t at least.”

The fireplace shoots up a spray of sparks. A few land on the hearthstone and fizzle out on impact.

“It’s not – I’m not schizophrenic. It’s bipolar. Just so you know.”

At that, Isak turns his eyes away from the fire. He puts his elbow on his knee, head in his hand and looks at Even. Something is swirling in his eyes, interrupted only by his slow blinking, and Even can’t figure out what it is.

“A friend of mine in high school, his mum was bipolar,” Isak then says, softer than before.

Even puts his palms together, tries to stop the fine tremors from spreading. “Is that good or bad?”

“Good,” Isak says, without pause. His eyes don’t change. “She was really cool. Had a good grip on how it worked for her. It seems like you do too. With the travelling and all.”

There’s a bit of a lump in his throat. It’s silly, but it makes him feel proud that Isak thinks so. He clears his throat. “Yeah. I do now.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

There’s a space in the silence; a crack to push a wedge into.

“Isak.”

“Yeah?”

“Okay,” Even’s fingers are itching to pick up something again, maybe the deck of cards. He can’t say anything more, although he wants to, wants to so much. It’s still _there_ , the _thing_ , the thing with Even perhaps not being someone you’d want in your life.

“I’m not comparing you to my mum. I’m not comparing my friend’s mum to her either. It’s just… It’s part of my luggage.”

Isak clears his throat.

“We all have luggage, right.”

“We do,” Even manages to say.

Isak’s leg is so close to his, to his hand. He moves his hand, just a little, his fingertips just above Isak’s knee.

The crack. The wedge.

A moment of silence passes again, but Even isn’t sure how long this one lasts. It’s not longer than two minutes, because that’s the maximum amount of time he can hold his breath. And he doesn’t even have time to go lightheaded, before Isak’s hand touches his shoulder.

A steady, sturdy, grip, but the fingers moving on to play with the hair behind his ear are soft. Almost delicate. The hand moves, curls around the back of his neck and makes him look at Isak again.This time, there’s nowhere to escape. Not that he wants to.

Isak face is open, soft and relaxed. No more frosted panes.

“Oh, fuck it,” he hears Isak mutter, and then Isak is leaning in and kissing him.

Even can’t help but smile against Isak’s mouth, and it seems it’s contagious, because soon enough, Isak is smiling too, the kiss turning into them just pushing their smiles against one another’s. Even lets his hands bury themselves in Isak’s hair; it dried during the day, and now it’s coarse under his fingers. A knot snags him, and then another, but they’re easy enough to avoid once he has them mapped out. There’s probably some salt residue in there, and Even is pretty sure he’d smell it if Isak let him go long enough for Even to push his nose into his hair. Not that he’s complaining though. Kissing Isak, finally, is so good.

His scruff is raspy against Even’s skin, his lips softer than expected, and for a moment Even yearns for a three-day stubble of his own to rub against Isak’s lips and jaw, but then Isak opens his mouth a little and the tip of his tongue probes Even’s lips. There’s no room for smiles now, there’s warmth and delight and a pooling tingling feeling in his groin.

He’s allowed, it’s unbelievable but _he’s allowed_ , to let his hands roam over Isak’s body and to move so that Isak can his own hands on whichever parts of Even he wants them on. Just as unbelievably, it seems like Isak wants to touch a great deal of him. Even’s hands wander over Isak’s back, Isak keeps a hand on Even’s neck but lets the other move over his arms, his ribs, under the hem of his hoodie. The hand on Even’s neck tenses when the other hand encounters skin, and at this point Even starts to lose track of the events.

He has long since lost sight of not really having permission, that he ought to stay professional. This is bordering on fraternisation, for real.

He can’t bring himself to care.

Isak’s warm, strong hand is on his thigh now, and that sends flashes of heat to his dick, to his balls, to his lungs that feel like they don’t have enough space inside his ribcage. It’s hot and raw and his blood is roaring in his ears, his hands and his mouth is full of _Isak Isak Isak_ and Isak is pressing up against his chest and his leg.

Isak starts tugging on his hoodie, muttering “off, off, off,” under his breath. It gets messy, with both of them trying to take Even’s hoodie and t-shirt off and both of them switching to trying to take Isak’s t-shirt off, their hands stumbling over each other. It doesn’t help that neither is willing to give the other’s mouth up, but they manage. Isak starts in on Even’s jeans, but Even grabs his hands.

“Bed. Yeah?”

Isak looks dazed, his eyelids heavy over his flushed cheeks.

“Yeah. Great idea.”

They both stand up, both knock their knees into the table. Isak is thrown off balance and flops back on the couch, practically jumps back on his feet and kicks the offending table to the side. Even can’t help but snicker at how nothing is allowed to get in Isak’s way when he’s set on something.

As he’s tugged the few metres to Isak’s bedroom, it suddenly hits home that _he_ is what Isak is set on now, and the thought trickles through his body like a warm touch to his entire being.

He unbuttons his jeans as Isak pushes the door open, pulls him inside, flings the duvet to the foot of the bed. His body seems to seek out Isak’s without Even ordering it to, one arm slipping around Isak’s waist as he pushes down his jeans and boxers with his free hand. He’d like more hands, to get Isak’s clothes off and still be able to hold him close.

But they manage, again, and tumble naked onto the bed.

There’s so much Isak here for Even to touch, to lick, and so he does, dipping into the collarbone and moving on to a nipple. Nosing into the sparse hair on Isak’s chest as he moves his lips over it. Crawling down the bed and Isak’s skin until his tongue meets Isak’s navel and the stripe of hair below it.

“I don't have any condoms,” Isak gasps more than he speaks.

And here it is, the fucking uncomfortable talk you need to have when you're going to bed - you’re _hopefully_ going to bed - with a stranger. Almost stranger. Even leans his forehead against Isak's sternum, taking a few deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. “Me neither. No swallowing, then.”

He almost adds ‘no penetration,’ but that's possibly a talk for another time.

“I should be okay, can't remember the last time I had any sort of sex without condoms, but yeah. No.”

Isak’s hand settles on Even's hair, and that - or just Isak himself - makes Even far too honest.

“I can't remember the last time I had any sort of sex.”

Isak laughs, giving Even’s hair a light tug.

“Come up here. We can have fun without condoms.”

He moves his leg as Even crawls up his body, lifting Even up a little and settling him between his legs, and _oh_ this works. A breath, more resembling a gasp, slips out when he lets himself sink onto Isak, skin against skin. The way their ribs move in sync, Isak’s hands running up and down his back, their mingling breaths, how hot and throbbing Isak’s dick feels against the groove of his hip.

On instinct, Even thrusts down against him. Isak’s eyes fall closed, a moan punching out of him.

“Oh, fuck. Do that again.”

So Even does. Isak’s hand comes up into his hair, gripping tight as his other comes down, gripping them both, and it’s too much. Even presses his mouth against Isak’s shoulder, breathing right into his skin as his hips move on their own; chasing something, as Isak’s hand circles both their dicks.

It’s just as hectic and uncoordinated as before. There’s really nothing pretty about it – except for the way Isak moans – but it’s still good. So, so fucking good. His body is moving on its own, fingers digging into Isak’s hip, holding him still, the other hand moored to his shoulder.

They’re both heaving for breath, and Isak’s eyes are so dark when Even can finally look up from where he’s buried his face in the crook of Isak’s neck. Isak’s breath hitches, and his movements turn desperate as the hand gripping Even’s hair pulls hard at the strands. It is as if he knows how Even works - as if he already knows that that will make him moan, too, will give him access to Even’s open mouth and kiss him hard, muffling their sounds.

All the sounds, except the wet one of Isak’s hand.

It’s rough, and despite how much precome there is from both of them it’s borderline uncomfortable. Even’s whole body is throbbing; Isak’s thighs locked around his hips and holding him close doesn’t make it any easier to ignore that. They don’t make it any easier to breathe, and neither does the fact that he can feel every twitch of Isak’s dick when Even takes his upper lip gently between his teeth.

Even feels the throbbing heightening a notch, clouding his vision, a sign that he’s very close. Yet it’s as if he’s unable to reach it like this – Isak’s hand around them, moving in sync. He lets his hand slip down from Isak’s hip, down the groove of his groin and takes hold of the back of his thigh.

It’s just a small adjustment, but it pushes a groan out of Isak; a breathy, frustrated noise straight into Even’s ear. The hand around them both tightens for a second – Even stops breathing – before he hears Isak’s voice again, just as close.

“I need more – fuck.”

Isak’s hand in his hair yanks again, and Even feels it like an electric current from his scalp to his dick. The moan is just as involuntary, Isak smiles when he presses his mouth to Even’s open, moaning one. He grabs Even’s hand, moves it under him.

“I’m so fucking close – I just need you to - inside, please – yes.”

It’s not much, but the combination of it all – of his own hand, Even on top of him, Even’s finger in him, just to the first knuckle – seems to be enough. Isak holds him tighter again, the moans in Even’s ear get louder and Isak’s grip around them tighter. They’re both covered in sweat, sliding against one another now, but Even can feel his grip on Isak’s shoulder is slipping just as much as his control.

He presses his face against Isak’s neck, works him with his finger, with his hips, Isak’s knuckles digging into his stomach, and it’s good, so good.

He can’t tell the noise of the rain on the roof from the noise of his blood in his veins anymore, can’t tell their bodies apart, if the sensations are internal or external or a mix of the two – and then he’s coming in Isak’s hand, against Isak’s body, his hand between Isak’s legs stilling and his mouth open against Isak’s collarbone.

Through the haze he notices Isak’s thighs tightening around him, Isak’s hips lifting him up a little, the mess between them getting messier and Isak gasping into his hair, tugging hard at it.

The pull on his hair isn’t nearly as sexy now that he’s starting to come down, and the arm under Isak is starting to develop an unpleasant tingle, but there’s no way he’s moving while Isak is riding his own orgasm out.

Isak’s body sinks back into the mattress, like someone has cut all of his strings. Even doesn’t have the power to disentangle himself, so he just follows on down; let’s himself lie still, his ear sticking to Isak’s chest so that’s it’s almost creating a seal. Under it, he can hear Isak’s heart beat with steady, but strong thumps as he struggles to control his heaving breaths.

Eventually, they move apart.

Not far - the bed doesn’t allow it and Even is reluctant to take his hands from Isak’s skin - but Isak leans out of the bed and gets the box of Kleenex from beneath it. He pulls out a handful and wipes Even perfunctorily down, then himself.  

Even has to smile when Isak actually gets out of bed and goes to bin the tissues, before pulling down the blinds and padding back to bed in the dark. Had they been in Even’s bed, the tissues would have ended up on his nightstand to be dealt with the next day.

Isak pulls the duvet over them, tucking himself into Even’s side, rubbing his nose - and his scruff - against Even’s chest. A tingle shoots through Even, but he’s sleepy and sated and not really up for suggesting another round, so he just wraps his arms around Isak and nudges them both into a comfortable position, legs entwined.

As the rain patters against the shingles and the window pane, he faintly registers Isak stroking his hip with his fingertips before he lets himself succumb to sleep.

~*~

One side of Even’s body is sticking to someone else’s skin, someone else’s arm warm and firm and a little clammy under his neck. It’s familiar, but it’s been long enough since he woke up like this for him to be confused for a few moments. He blinks his eyes open. It’s dark in the room, but light is outlining the blinds, enough to make out the contours of the sleeping man beside him.

Even should probably feel guilt about his lack of professionalism, about having sex with an interviewee, but he can’t find it in him.

Isak is still asleep beside him, breaths deep and even, and his silhouette is gorgeous. Worst case, Even will have to leave the project, but it’s worth it.

Even if it was just for one night.

Still blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he resolves that it wasn’t. They fit together. They get along well, they slipped easily into jokes and banter, they can read each other.

For a moment, though, his stomach lurches. A rush of _what if Isak just thinks I’m good-looking enough to take to bed, what if he’s looking forward to getting me out of his hair._

Suddenly sweating and tense, he lies dead still, ignoring the full bladder that’s starting to nag him.

Isak moves.

He makes a few sleepy little noises, wriggling the arm under Even’s neck, then his eyes glint in the dusky room.

“Hello.”

Even’s mouth is too dry, and he has a fleeting thought about never getting around to brushing his teeth last night, but he manages to croak out a hello in return.

Isak’s teeth gleam stronger than the white of his eyes. He’s smiling, evidently. That’s good.

Then he moves closer, pressing his lips and his beard and his bad morning breath against Even’s mouth, his lips opening just enough to touch the tip of his tongue to Even’s lower lip.

Then he stiffens.

“Uh, was that…”

He doesn’t get any further, because Even chases down his lips, kissing him back until the taste of sleep-stale mouths is replaced with the sweet taste of Isak.

Even’s body feels warm, not just physically but on another plane altogether. Isak _kissed him_. He was hardly awake and the first thing he did was kiss Even.

And Even lets himself touch Isak’s thighs again, his arm, his neck, as he allows himself to push up against Isak and feel his morning-hard and perhaps Even-proximity-hard dick against his own again.

Isak digs his hand into Even’s hair and pulls, and perhaps this is a thing, now.

Perhaps all of it is, that it’s a part of a whole thing. That it isn’t just sitting in front of the fire, warming up after a day at sea, or the casual domesticity of breakfast, but also Isak’s hand closing around him again, jerking him off like he already knows exactly how Even likes it without being told.

That it’s just as natural as everything else.

When Even comes to, blood still rushing and chest heaving, he turns his head. The pillowcase rustles in the way that old linen does, and it cuts through ambient sounds.

Beside him, Isak has folded his arm to rest his head on it. The soft expression is still there, but there’s also something else in his eyes. Something heavier, sadder, that’s just as familiar as the panic of suffocation by drowning. Yet it’s magnetic, and Even wouldn’t be surprised if Isak’s expression is mirrored in his own.

Then he blinks, and it’s gone.

Even clears his throat.“What time is it?”

His voice must be loud, because Isak startles a little, before he reaches his hand out, scrambling for something on the chair turned nightstand. The screen of his phone lights up and clears the darkness.

“A little past six,” he says, rolling back. Under the covers, his hand strokes down Even’s side, without intent.  “When’s your flight?”

“Ten.”

“Okay.” Isak whispers. “Do you want to stay here ten more minutes, with me? We have time for that.”

Even doesn’t answer. He just pulls Isak closer again, reveling in his warmth and the sound of his breathing, mingling with the rain outside.

~*~

They turn a little bit shy after, sorting out who’s showering first, deciding it’s Isak while Even picks up their clothes from all over the little cabin and starts to pack his things. In another place, another bathroom, Even would have powered through the almost awkward come-covered nakedness by suggesting they shower together, but that’s just not happening in Isak’s cramped shower cabinet. As it is, he just squares his shoulders, doesn’t put any clothes on and when Isak exits the bathroom with still damp hair and flushed chest over the towel he’s put around his hips, Even meets him with a deep kiss and a squeeze of his hip. Isak returns the kiss, flings an arm around Even’s neck. When they let each others’ lips go, he tips his head back and gives Even a lingering look through his lashes.

Even wants to go on, and on and on, go back to bed and stay there, when Isak looks at him like that.

He has a plane to catch, though. A flight back to his everyday existence.

Isak makes coffee while Even showers, and they’re back in the domestic cocoon over crisp bread and caviar spread, but this time they sit close to each other, thighs touching. It makes for some clumsiness and almost a lapful of coffee on Even’s part, but Even doesn’t mind. He’s allowed to touch, so he does - tucking a curl behind Isak’s ear, wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth, swooping in to kiss Isak’s neck.

Isak touches him right back, a hand on his thigh for most of the meal, nose pressed against his cheek along with a peck, exaggerated blowing on Even’s fingers when he almost spills his coffee.

Even settles into it. Too easily, maybe. He won’t get this the next day, or for weeks, and maybe he’ll never have it again.

Can’t have everything, so he’ll grab what he can have.

By the time he’s finished the coffee, the last dregs of it has gotten cold, tasting bitter and watery. Not warm and comforting, nor threatening to scald his lap. When he gets up from the couch, it doesn’t pass him by that Isak doesn’t move until he does.

Isak washes the mugs and plates, and Even takes it upon himself to dry them with the tea towel. It’s not long until they have to leave now. And he’ll take whatever minute of this; this proximity to Isak, the permission to let his hand brush against the small of his back, receiving nothing but a smile in return.

A small one, but a smile nonetheless.

Even puts the last mug back in the cupboard, when Isak turns off the radio. The little click of the volume knob is unnaturally loud, as is the clink of the ceramic against ceramic.

“That’s all?” Isak says, nodding towards the hall, where Even’s suitcase and camera bag are.

Even swallows. “Yes. It’s – it’s all packed up.”

Isak nods, and taps his finger against the stainless steel of the sink. He looks at Even for a second, before stepping closer, and then kissing him again. It’s light, chaste even, but Even feels it all the way to his toes.

After just a second, Isak pulls away, tossing one look at the clock on the oven. “Okay. We have to leave now.”

“Right.”

There’s no point in stalling any longer, so they grab the bags and Isak switches off all the lights, before going outside. The rain has stopped, but the saturated chill is still in the air, tossed around by the milder winds. And when Isak turns the ignition in the old Toyota, driving back onto the asphalted highway, Even can’t help but reach his hand out, interlocking their fingers.

Every moment of the all too short ride is spent with Isak’s hand in his, resting between the seats. It feels like a luxury, an indulgence. Every moment Isak needs his hand back for the gearing feels like a small eternity.

Even spends the ride looking at Isak’s profile. Isak spends the ride pointing out interesting sights, and occasionally looking at Even, and every time he looks over he smiles.

He must be aware that Even is barely listening, that he’s busy drinking in the sight of Isak. And maybe, just maybe, Even is planning to check with HR if there will be any openings in the NRK district office in the foreseeable future. Something temporary, someone going on parental leave, if he’s lucky.

Can he really have this, the effortless slide into something that feels like coupledom? In just a couple of days, go from total strangers to holding hands in the car like they’re an item, like they’ve already built a past together? To draft an email to HR in his mind, angling for something his mind shies away from. For something that’s perhaps too attainable to allow himself to shape the thought?

Deep down, he doesn’t think he can.

They both get out of the car at the airport, Even bracing himself for the farewell as Isak hands him his suitcase and camera bag from the boot. All the ease from the car ride is gone, now that they have to stand in the car park and look at each other.To go through the motions of saying goodbye to someone Even has known for a couple of days and ended up having sex with.

Isak keeps his eyes on the ground and Even’s stomach grows heavy.

“Uh, I’ll be back in a couple of weeks with my crew. I’ll be in touch with your boss about scheduling interviews and the like…”

He trails off as Isak looks at him, the right side of his mouth pulling up in a crooked half-grin.

“How formal we are now, Mr Næsheim. Surely we’re past that.”

Even has to smile back. It’s probably a little frayed at the edges, but he goes with Isak’s joking tone.

“I don’t know, Dr Valtersen. We’ve barely been properly introduced, although we did get somewhat acquainted in your cabin.”

With a bit of a too deep breath, Even jumps into it: “I hope to renew that particular mode of acquaintance. Among other modes.”

Isak’s smirk softens into a genuine smile. Then he steps up and pulls Even into a big, warm, long - but too short - hug.

“I’ll take you out on _Mari_ again and get you more acquainted with the sea.”

Even laughs into Isak’s hair as he lets Even go.

“I was thinking more along the lines of talks in front of the fire, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Isak moves his hand to Even’s neck, their foreheads touching, and then their lips.

“We’ll see each other again, right?”

Even can hear that his own voice is close to breaking.

“Yeah, we will. In two weeks, when you come here with your crew.”

Isak voice is soft, but clear.The thoughts swirling in Even’s head are fighting for the right to be heard. All the things he wants Isak to know, all that he himself wants to know, all those thoughts that are crystallizing as he lifts his head and opens his eyes.

As he does, an airplane passes overhead, crossing the wide expanse of the sky. It really is so much easier to see that sky here. Whole, wide, without an imagined heaviness. It’s so open, and light.

And so full of air.

His stomach twists, his throat tightens, but he forces himself to speak.

Goes overboard.

But on purpose this time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it - we've loved writing it and we're so grateful for all your lovely comments. Thank you for coming along for this trip north with us ♥

**Author's Note:**

> title is from joni mitchell's "[the dawntreader](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9JQGkUPJIpg/)". we're [vesperthine](http://vesperthine.tumblr.com/) and [skamskada](http://skamskada.tumblr.com/) over at tumblr. come say hi! ♡


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